


The Heart Must Yield

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bottom Jared, Clever Jared, Honorable Jensen, Jousting, Lord Jared of Padalecki, M/M, Sir Jensen, Top Jensen, True love conquers all, Virgin Jared, Warden Jensen, World-building is hard, cast of thousands, skinnydipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen was only a common knight of the King's Guard, so he was astonished when he was named as Warden to the last surviving heir of Lord Padalecki. Jensen’s duty was to escort young Jared to the royal court to marry a cousin as a condition for his inheritance, but somewhere along the journey, he found he'd fallen in love with his Ward. While Jensen was bound by honor to urge Jared into the arms of another, it turned out Jared had other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Must Yield

***

 

As their party crested the slight rise in the hill, Jensen’s gaze followed the well-worn road that snaked downward into the valley and then back up, climbing toward the monastery set in the western forest they called Tall Timber. The Brotherhood had chapterhouses scattered throughout the kingdom, but this one—at the far western edge of the Padalecki lands—was the largest, their principal post.

A flicker of movement drew Jensen’s eye, and he realized they would not have to travel all the way up to the monastery after all. Flashes of sunlight glinted from bits and bridles of the party arrayed along the path in the valley’s bowl. It was smaller than his own, but still substantial in number. The waiting horsemen stood still, like rows of statues. Their armor blended with the traditional grey surcoats of the Brotherhood. Only the brief shake of a horse’s mane or the stamp of hoof made the patient rows come alive. 

Jensen called one of his troops forward, planning to send him ahead to treat with the group, but the Queen forestalled him. “Never mind the messenger, Jensen. I recognize the Abbot at the fore.”

She kicked her horse and sent it trotting downhill, her flaxen hair flying out behind. Jensen and his guards hurried close on her mare’s heels. Jensen shook his head at her carelessness, accustomed to the King’s more deliberate nature, but he wasn’t truly worried here. The Brotherhood was beloved of the Crown, and the feeling had always been returned full measure.

As they approached, one horse stepped out from the ranks, its rider swinging down, graceful for such a big man. He bent his knee to the dust of the track, his head bowed. This was a cue to the other Brothers, who, almost as one, dismounted and knelt as well.

“Rise, all of you,” called the Queen. “Get up from there, Robert, and let me see you.”

The man stood, a broad smile breaking across his dark face. As the company sorted themselves, he stepped to take the hand the Queen extended, kissing it. Jensen had heard many tales of Robert the Wise, leader of the Brotherhood, but in person he seemed less intimidating than gossip and legend portrayed. 

“Well met, Your Majesty,” he rumbled, his voice deep and mellow. “It’s been too long.”

“Indeed,” she replied. “Neither of us is getting any younger.” Then she glanced over his shoulder at the company behind him, her sharp eyes scanning the faces. “I just wish it were under more fortuitous circumstances.”

Jensen followed Queen Samantha’s gaze. He spotted several men he knew—Sebastian, Misha, Tahmoh—knights of the Brotherhood who’d joined the king’s armies in the recent fighting overseas. He recognized others he did not know by name, but by their prowess in arms in tourneys and, lately, the war. He nodded to them generally in greeting, then scanned their ranks again, trying to guess whether young Padalecki was with them. 

The Queen didn’t bother with guessing. “Jared,” she summoned. “Come forward.”

There was a shifting among the horses, and a young man emerged from the ranks. He was dressed in grey like the Brothers, but wore no mail, just a cloak with the hood thrown back. Jensen noted how little he resembled his Padalecki kin. All three, the earl and his children—his true children—had been built as blocky and solid as a team of oxen. But while Jared had his father’s height and breadth of shoulder, he was lean, lithe. Not ox, but quarter horse. 

It was a shame, Jensen thought. Things might go easier for him if the likeness were stronger.

Jared positioned himself next to Robert before the queen, his chin held high. He must be grown full height, as he stood nearly head and shoulders taller than his Abbot. But a rogue gust of wind played through hair that was still long as a boy’s, and gave proof that Jared had not yet taken a Brother’s vows. This close, Jensen saw that he was not just well-made, but fair of face, with sharp, strong nose and jaw, bright eyes tip-tilted, and a beauty mark on his cheek like the ones affected by the ladies at Court. His lips were pink and raw as if they’d been bitten… or kissed.

Quickly Jensen looked away, his blood running unconscionably hot. Could there be a less appropriate time to allow such lustful thoughts to slip free? Or a less likely person upon which to fix them? He called up the image of Lord Gerald of Padalecki in his prime, thick shoulders strung with bejeweled necklets and ermine, sitting in state at the King’s right hand. This boy was Gerald’s heir, as far above Jensen as Princess Alona or the moon itself. Jensen quickly reined his desire in.

The Abbot began, “I have discussed with Jared his—“

“Let him speak for himself,” the Queen interrupted, pinning Jared with a poniard look.

“It—it is not my will that I stand before you today, Your Majesty. I’m here because I am concerned with but one thing.” The young man’s voice was stiff and earnest, and Jensen admired his forthrightness. “What will happen to my family’s lands if I refuse this obligation?” 

Jensen had been told at least part of their purpose here already. But he listened closely to the reply, to see if the Queen would let slip any more information.

“With no clear heir to your father’s honors,” Queen Samantha said, “we fear the estates will be quickly carved up by neighboring barons. The lands are rich and leaderless, ripe for the picking. The wars with the Empire are finally over, but with my lord the King still recovering from his grievous wounds, bloodshed and civil strife inside the kingdom must be forestalled. That includes Padalecki especially. Only uncertainty has kept the scavengers for your lands at bay so far. You are of Lord Gerald’s line, even if you are—,” there was barely a pause in her speech, but Jensen saw Jared note it with a clench of his jaw, ”—born outside of marriage. Although as such you may not outright succeed to the title, the King has decreed that, should you agree to wed one of your distant kinsmen, someone with true Padalecki lineage, you may rule your father’s lands and keep them safe. The other claimants have agreed to this proposal, rather than battle each other and drain the treasure dry. So what say you?”

For a few long moments, Jared did not reply, his lips pressed in a tight line. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the silent lines of holy men. In the gap of his silence, the Queen leaned closer. Jensen barely caught the low words that followed, borne to him on the breeze. “Lad, indeed, on his very deathbed, your father entreated us to find some way for you, his last surviving child, to inherit. It was his wish and will.”

“Your Majesty,” he replied in the same low tone. “My whole life, I’ve been cautioned never to aspire to this. I was not meant to wed, to rule. I am no true son.” Pain shown in his eyes as he said it aloud. “It was my brother’s or my sister’s place.”

“But now it is yours,” the Queen urged, “and as unwelcome as it may be, it’s now a duty you must take up.”

Jared did not hesitate any longer. He nodded and said, even more softly. “I shall.” 

Jensen let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. The Crown’s armies had too long been at war overseas against Lyon and his Empire, and as one of the King’s own Guard, Jensen was veteran of much of the action. He was no coward, met his duty gladly, but he would admit he was tired, still sore in body and mind. He longed for peace, and for at least a short respite here at home. Should young Padalecki be able to prevent a new conflict on his family’s lands, a revolt among the great houses in which the Crown would be forced to intervene, Jensen would be grateful.

Robert the Wise clasped Jared’s shoulder. “It is for the best, my son.”

“May the Two prove you right,” Jared said in rote reply. 

The Queen stripped off her suede riding-glove and loosed a thick gold ring from her thumb. “This is your father’s signet ring,” she said, holding it out for Jared to take. “He was our friend and loyal servant. Take it as you follow in his footsteps and serve King Jeffrey as loyal vassal.”

Jared stared down at the ring, carefully turning it over in his hands. Rather than don it, however, he gripped it tightly in his fist. Looking back up at the Queen, Jared said, “Your Majesty, before I join the Court and make a— a suitable alliance, may I visit my father’s holdings? Or even just his keep at Saint Anthony?”

Queen Samantha glanced over at Jensen, who was nominally in charge of this expedition. He himself glanced back at his column of mounted men- and women-at-arms, then made a quick calculation. “It would take this troop almost a month, at best. And we did not provision for such a journey. We are quite a horde to descend upon a household, even one as large as the Padaleckis’ fine castle.” He nodded politely in Jared’s direction.

The Queen took that in, considering, then shifted her glance between himself and Jared. “We need not all go,” she replied at last. “I believe I shall assign you as his Warden, Sir Jensen, and send you and six of our escort with him to guard him on his progress.”

“Warden? For the new heir to Padalecki?” Jensen scoffed. “You can’t be serious, Your Majesty.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Jared flinch and regretted the tone. Jared probably misread it as a slur upon his bastardy. But, truly, Jensen was the one who was unworthy. It was ridiculous, the Queen naming him Warden on a lark. Jensen had no rank outside the Royal Household, outside of the King’s Guard. It was only the recent loss or injury to so many of the more veteran soldiers that brought him here as head of the Queen’s entourage to begin with. 

Jensen had no illusions that he was anything but a simple knight, with little to recommend him but his strong right arm and a knack for being in the right place at the right time. He was a commoner. Jared’s Warden should be someone of impeccable rank and stature. Someone who could protect him, not from bandits on the road, but from the more subtle traps and snares that waited for him at Court as heir to some of the richest holdings in the kingdom. 

Jared’s Warden should also be someone who did not want to bed him at first sight.

Ignoring Jensen’s outburst, the Queen addressed Jared. “Go and mount now, lad, and say your farewells.” As the Abbot drew Jared away, back to the waiting company beyond, she pulled sharply at her horse’s rein and drew it close alongside Jensen’s.

“I assure you, I’m completely serious,” the Queen murmured, this time for his ears only. “Young Jared needs an escort if I am to grant his request, it’s true. But the Wardenship is not just for convenience of the moment, Jensen. I cannot name a noble to the post for fear of offending other contenders to his hand. By choosing you, here, I have must-needs as an excuse to soothe any ruffled feathers. Plus, the boy will need advice, guidance, insight. You can give him those things.” She looked over her shoulder to gauge how close Jared was to returning, then quickly reached over to grip Jensen’s wrist, giving it a little shake. “Jeffrey and I must be seen as impartial. But you can gain his trust. Recommend to him the houses of Connell or Lehne. Pellegrino grows too powerful. We must have this matter of the Padalecki lands settled by midsummer.”

Never had Jensen heard Queen Samantha lay out her political maneuvering so baldly. He felt a blossom of warmth in his chest at the confidence, even as doubt clung about him. 

She must have read it in his face, because she said with a fond smile, “Do not fear, sweet knight, I know you are not one for intrigue.” She raised her voice. “I expect nothing but that you get him to Court safely.”

At that moment Jared reached them, and Jensen could not reply as he wished. So he asked instead, “And what of you, my liege? Your safety is my original charge. Am I just to trust that mooning Wade scion who rides with us to see you safe back to Morgan?”

The Queen merely raised a brow, as if to chide him for such a weak parlay. “I’m sure even with Travis’s lackluster attentions, forty-odd soldiers-at-arms will suffice to get me home. The lands between here and there are friendly and we have quiet in the realm. At least at the moment.” Briefly, Jensen saw a cloud cross her face, then she regained her cheerful composure. She turned her horse back up the way they’d come scarce an hour before. The bulk of the troop arranged themselves to follow her, with the exception of a handful she ordered to hold back and await Jensen’s orders. 

She called to them over her shoulder, challenging. “I expect you to arrive at Court in two weeks, gentlemen. I plan to make it halfway there myself by sundown!” 

Jensen couldn’t help but smile at her pluck, but then steeled himself as he turned to face his young charge. His _Ward_.

 

*****

Jared sat lightly in the saddle, as if ready to clap spurs and fly away, and Jensen could see his hand twisted tight in the reins. Jensen had heard that only four years separated them in age, but Jared, for all his height, looked so young and uncertain it wrung Jensen’s heart. Jared’s hair was tucked back behind his ears now, curling up where it brushed his jawline, his cheeks smooth and his brow furrowed with doubt. Jensen wanted nothing more in the moment than to let him return to the safety and quiet of the Brothers’ care.

Alas, that was not to be. “Do you need to return to the cloister for aught, my lord? Do you have everything you need?” 

“No—I mean, yes. Yes, all I have is with me.” Jared ducked his head, his face flushing. “And you should not call me ‘my lord.’ I fear I’ve not won that right yet.”

Jensen flushed as well—but not from shyness, oh no—from the way the pink in Jared’s cheek caused a hot twist in the pit of Jensen’s stomach. He prayed for the Twins to give him strength. Or better yet, to give it to Jared, lest the jackals at court eat this lamb alive. 

“Let us be off then,” he said, more sharply than intended. 

With the Brotherhood’s troop circling back toward the monastery and the Queen’s already topping the rise, their remaining band of eight seemed tiny standing gathered in the dusty path. There might not be outright civil war in the realm at the moment, but it was an uneasy peace, balanced on lordless Padalecki as a pivot point. Jensen was well aware of the potential trouble that could result, should word of the Queen’s plan spread, and someone successfully abduct Jared, sending the line of inheritance into chaos. 

It would be best for Jensen to keep his Ward out of sight. He signaled their escort to fall behind and set off across the open plain. 

While the King’s palace lay immediately to the south, the Padalecki estates stretched far to the east, farmlands and rich holdings that girdled the kingdom in a thick belt of plenty. They’d go as far as Saint Anthony, upon Jared’s request, then cut back toward the capital at Morgan to meet the Queen’s fortnight timetable.

The group traveled in silence for a while, Jensen casting his mind back to when he first was chosen by the King as a squire. Jeffrey had plucked him—much younger than Jared was now—from the poverty and obscurity of his mothers’ house, and Jensen recalled how bewildered and panicked he’d felt simply trying to balance on the saddle behind one of His Majesty’s knights as they rode toward Morgan. Jensen had been installed as a page, and later a squire as he worked his way up the ranks of Jeffrey’s personal guard. To this day, Jensen was not sure what the King had seen in that young boy to choose him to train as a knight, but he was thankful for it.

Jared of Padalecki might be older than Jensen was then, but the task before him was significantly greater. 

He glanced at the figure keeping pace beside him, as beautiful and tragic as a minstrel’s tale.

“Your mount,” Jensen began, as good a place as any. “He’s remarkable. As fine an animal as I’ve seen in all my journeys.” He smiled, nodding down at his own horse. “With the exception of my Shadow here, of course.”

Jared’s stallion was indeed striking. He was the color of new snow underneath and up the sides of his body, his head the milky color of a winter sky, his neck and shoulders decorated with dapples of light and dark, his silken mane and tail that shade of smoky-silver unique to the famous Padalecki grays.

Jared looked up swiftly from his contemplation of his saddle horn, as if surprised Jensen would make friendly conversation. But then he smiled, just a flash, like the sun peeking forth from behind a mass of clouds. “His name is Faith.” He offered up the name shyly, less assured than he’d appeared with the Queen. “I’m afraid he was meant to live life as a warhorse but has been stuck jumping hedges while hunting with me.” He leaned down to give the horse’s neck a pat. “I was there in the stables the morning he was born, and he was gifted to me when I left home for Tall Timber. My father’s wife and her mother before her bred horses, you see.”

As if surprised at his own casual mention of his family, Jared stiffened, eyes shuttering. He warily searched Jensen’s expression. “What do you know of my history?” he asked impassively.

Jensen immediately wanted the voluble, smiling Jared back, but he figured it was better to get this conversation over sooner than later. 

“Rumors,” he replied. “A great many rumors, but some facts I believe in among them. I met your father at Court many times and fought beside him in battle.” Lord Gerald had always seemed larger-than-life, and the tales that were whispered about his scandalous marriage had been embroidered upon until they were nearly all ornament and no cloth to anchor them. But from what Jensen knew, the man had taken his wife’s waiting woman to bed, and after getting her with child, he’d kept the boy, when he should have given it up to the Sisterhood for adoption. That was what would have been right and customary, since his line already had two True Children. 

There were many families who needed to adopt their True Sons and Daughters, and there was great honor in providing out-of-wedlock babes to such. Instead, Lord Gerald and his wife had kept his bastard child, Jared, in their home. 

A bastard. It was almost unheard of.

Jared’s existence had been a scandal at court for a long time, but had faded into just a titillating story by the time Jensen came to hear of it. 

“I admired him,” Jensen said, “and whatever decisions he made about your upbringing, I would judge he had good reasons.”

Jared looked relieved at Jensen’s lack of scorn, and sighed. “They were in love, you see…Lady Padalecki and my mother. My father, too, I think. I know the Church says it is wrong, that it’s unnatural, but the three of them lived together in harmony.” He looked at Jensen from the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction to this additional brand of heresy.

Jensen knew that a more strictly devout person would be scandalized, appalled. The paired bond was one of the most sacred rituals of the Church. But Jensen’s particular approach to spirituality was a pragmatic one; he’d seen enough base infidelity and other sins at Court to be unfazed. He did wonder what Robert Wisdom had to say to Lord Gerald about it when he’d first brought Jared to the monastery’s doorstep. He also wondered if the other Brothers had treated Jared poorly because of it, and found himself incensed on Jared’s behalf at slights that may never even have happened. 

He reminded himself to take aside the soldiers in their company that evening. He would instruct them to say nothing to Jared about his ancestry. Not that any of Jensen’s corps would be actively cruel—he didn’t stand for that—but even joking might strike amiss.

“My mother couldn’t bear to give me up,” Jared continued, “and I believe she prevailed upon Lady Padalecki to intervene on my behalf. In any case, in my childhood I was a pet, a plaything, so much younger than my father’s True Children. But, later, as I grew older and… circumstances changed, it became clear that my presence in the household was—was awkward. My father brought me to the monastery when I was thirteen.” 

_Which is where you’d still be_ , Jensen thought, _if not for such ill fate as to take your whole family at once._

It seemed like more than a month had passed since Jensen had been on the battlefield, glancing down the line of knights and footmen. He’d caught a glimpse of, Lord Gerald and his daughter, Megan, underneath the banner of Padalecki, preparing for the call to advance. 

The fighting had gone on for hours. The King’s armies had prevailed, but at terrible cost. By the end of the bloodletting, Gerald had suffered dreadful wounds. 

Gerald’s heir had sailed to be by his side, but Gerald had made a slight recovery, enough to persuade his children it was wise to bring him back to Padalecki for convalescence. That small glimmer of hope was dashed when, in a rare spring storm, the ship went down halfway home. Tragically, both son and daughter perished, while Jared’s father had been one of the few saved in a small rescue craft. Between his wounds and exposure—and likely grief—Gerald only survived long enough to die at Court in the arms of King and Queen.

Jensen chose not to mention his last sight of Jared’s father, carried from the harbor into Castle Morgan on a pallet, his bandages blood-soaked, half-mad with fever and sorrow. 

He wondered what Jared’s mother thought of her lover’s death, what her position would be now, given her son’s possible ascension. But then he recalled another dark twist in Jared’s tale. 

“Lady Padalecki,” Jensen asked. “She was lost in the Great Pestilence seven years past?”

“Yes, and my mother as well,” Jared affirmed, his tone even, but his mouth twisting to hide pain. “I’m a bastard and an orphan, too. Not an enviable combination.” 

What could Jensen say? That there was a throng of young scions—second sons and daughters at Court—who would indeed envy him? There were too many that would long to be in Jared’s shoes, to be raised up unexpectedly as an heir to great lands, and care naught for the circumstances that brought them there?

They rode on in silence. The grass crushed under the horses’ hooves smelled like sage and summertime. Under full sun now, Jensen began to eye the distance to the edge of the nearer trees with eagerness for the shade. 

A glimpse at Jared showed a furrow between his brows. Jensen found himself wishing to erase it, but uncertain how. Finally he said, “Now that I have a small sense of your history, what would you know in turn of me?”

“I’m not sure,” Jared replied. “That is. I—um. The Queen never actually introduced us.”

Jensen pulled back sharply on his reins. “Truly?” Jensen thought back to how quickly everything transpired and realized that it must have been so. “I beg your pardon, making you ride off with a stranger. But why didn’t you say something?”

Jared simply shrugged silently and looked chagrined, apologetic for what wasn’t his fault. This was not what Jensen intended. Damn, if only he was as glib and polished as the young lackeys at Court that trailed around after Princess Alona. 

“My name is Jensen,” he said simply, “and I hail from Ackles, which is a small hamlet beholden to Richardson.”

“I don’t know Ackles,” Jared said, “but Richardson is in the south, yes? On Richings’ lands? How are you related to Lord Richings?”

“Nay, I have no noble family,” Jensen replied. Jared should be the last person to judge him for that, but Jensen had become used to the sneers of some better born at his low station, so he couldn’t help but watch Jared’s reaction closely. 

“And yet you lead the Queen’s retinue?” 

“In truth, I’m normally just a member of the King’s Guard. I lead men for him when called upon. I only travel with the Queen on rare occasion.”

“And the King’s health?” Jared asked carefully. Clearly news of King Jeffrey’s wounds had traveled even to the farthest corners of the realm. It wasn’t too surprising. The King was generally well-liked—with the exception of certain disgruntled or ambitious nobles—and Alona, while likely to make a decent sovereign one day, was not ready to ascend the throne as yet.

“Worse than reported, better than most fear,” Jensen replied. 

Another silence ensued, this one less awkward. It was more stillness than stilted. Jensen could hear the soldiers behind them chatting comfortably, their saddles creaking as the horses climbed the last sharp incline ending in an old weathered fence line that opened into the forest’s boundary.

Jared hesitated there for a moment, his Faith sidling under him. 

“What is it?” Jensen asked.

“It’s nothing. Foolishness.” Jared’s mouth twisted ruefully, his cheeks flooding pink once more. “We’re passing beyond the border of the Brotherhood’s lands. This is the first I’ve been outside them since my father brought me here.”

“Ah, well.” Jensen said blithely, relieved that Jared’s hesitation was at something so inconsequential. He tossed out the old blessing, “May the first step be the hardest you take, and the rest of the road go easy.”

Jared looked at him, all seriousness. “With you as my guardian, I can well believe it will be.”

They stood for a moment, Jensen at a loss for reply, until Jared clucked to his mount, kicking its sides and trotting forward into the wood.

 

*****

Jensen kept them moving at a steady pace, trying to cover as much distance as they could in the daylight they had. Despite what the Queen had said about safety, Jensen wanted to take no chances with his precious cargo. The sooner they could make it to the shelter of Jared’s keeps, the better.

At one point Jensen took several small rolls of trail bread and dry jerky out of his saddlebag and handed them to Jared. “We’ll not stop to eat. I should like to see if we can make it through this section of forest and into Williamshire before we stop, if you believe you can travel so far?”

Jared made no protest and, indeed, traveled as hardily as any of the troop. They made camp in a clearing where the trees had thinned as the sky ripened to a pink sunset. 

Jensen was pleased to note that Jared swung down from Faith and began tending to the horse himself—checking his legs for soreness and shucking off the saddle and headstall—without expecting one of their escort to come take on the duty for him. He hoped the self-sufficient habits Jared apparently learned with the Brothers stuck with him into life as Lord Padalecki. Jensen knew too many pampered nobles that could barely wipe their own asses. 

He stifled a groan as he dismounted his own horse, squeezing his elbow tight against the sharp twinge of pain in his side. Broken ribs were notoriously slow to heal, and he’d been too impatient lying abed to let them knit properly. How Jeffrey would scold him if he knew, immobilized as the King was by his own much more severe and still-healing wounds.

Jensen loosened Shadow’s girth but didn’t bother with the rest of the unsaddling yet. “This way,” he indicated to Jared, and the two of them led the mounts down to the nearby creek for water.

A few hours later, Jensen sat looking out into the nothingness of the dark forest. Their tents had been raised and supper eaten. All that was left was to sleep. To his left the soldiers’ talk lulled and surged, part of the music that surrounded him—the _shrush_ of wind through the tent lines, the rip of horses’ teeth cropping what tufts of grass they could find in the undergrowth, the warble of night frogs. Somewhere in the darkness he heard the howl of a wolf, but it was distant, and even the mounts barely paused their evening meal to note it.

To his right, Jared sat so near the glow of the flames, Jensen feared a stray spark might set him alight. He was hunched over, peering at a book.

His Ward had barely spoken a word all evening, except for a shy mumbled thanks to the man who handed him a bowl of stew and a quiet offer to help with gathering extra kindling for the fire. The more in company they’d been, the more Jared had withdrawn. But now, with the darkness lending a feeling of seclusion, Jensen hoped to engage him in conversation once more.

It was strange. Jensen himself was no chatterbox, not known for being overly sociable or confiding. But something about Jared drew him, made him want to dig beneath the quiet surface.

“So this is what you’ve got stuffed in your saddlebags? Books? I couldn’t imagine what weighed them down so. Poor Faith, burdened with the Brotherhood’s entire library.”

Jared didn’t respond, just ducked his head a little lower, but Jensen could see the smile play at the corners of his mouth. The sticks in the fire snapped and popped like an old man’s joints in the morning, and Jensen breathed the smoke in deeply. The hint of sweetness made him think a few ash or hickory limbs must’ve been thrown into the mix.

“Just a few,” Jared said eventually, in his own defense. “It was hard to leave so many behind.”

“What makes for such an fascinating read?” 

“A History of Padalecki.” Jensen’s eyes tracked Jared’s hand as it trailed over the scrawled page, his thin wrist and long, tapered fingers elegant in the flickering light. “Plus some chapters on contracts and ceding of landholdings.” He caught Jensen’s skeptical look and huffed in affront. “It’s interesting!” 

At such unexpected vehemence, Jensen laughed and held up his hands before him in surrender. “I believe you! I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I hadn’t thought it would be such solemn science. I guess the Brotherhood isn’t known for its collection of romantic sagas.” 

“Not so much. But that’s no matter to me. I have a lot to learn about the intricacies of owning property and chattels,” Jared admitted ruefully. “So many people, so many places, all under my father’s care.”

“That reminds me.” Jensen stood up and searched around for one of his leather packs. Out of it he pulled a tightly-rolled map on thick parchment, one he’d secured back in Morgan when he’d first heard he was to escort the Queen through Padalecki’s lands. He returned to his place next to Jared at the fireside and unfurled the map on the swath of dirt between them. “My thought is to stop first at your keep at Williamston and then on to several smaller steadings, then here at Day,” he indicated the marking for the minor castle, “before we reach Saint Anthony.”

Jared reached out to trace their route with a light finger, then spread his hand, fingers spanning the Padalecki lands thumb to pinkie, Saint Anthony hidden under his palm. “It seems so small like this.” He picked up the hand to drag it through his hair. “So large in my mind.”

“It is a great responsibility,” Jensen agreed gently. The Queen had tasked him to help and advise, for peace and the good of the kingdom. But he had to resist the accompanying urge to smooth Jared’s ruffled locks back into place. “However, your good intentions and hard work are an excellent starting place.”

It was Jared’s turn to look skeptical.

Jensen shrugged. “I know of some who rule just as many lands as you will, but with neither of those. I’m coming to suspect you won’t be one of their ilk.”

Jared didn’t reply to that observation, but his cheeks colored more than the heat of the fire accounted for. Jensen looked away to see Brock come around the fire, approaching them to offer a wineskin and two hammered-tin cups. It was a welcome distraction. 

He poured for himself, then glanced back at Jared, who was busy rolling up the map. “Some red?” Jensen offered. “From Huffman’s vineyards?”

“I—ah—“ Jared peered into Jensen’s cup. The wine appeared black in the dark, firelight glints sparking. “That would be fine.”

Jensen hesitated, because Jared didn’t sound at all eager for a share. “Do you not like theirs?” 

“I don’t know,” Jared said, twisting unconsciously at the map he’d so carefully rolled, giving a nervous smile. “I haven’t actually tasted it. Not Huffman’s. Not—not any wine. The Brothers don’t partake of spirits, you know.”

“Oh merciful Twins.” Jensen rolled his eyes toward the heavens for help, because Jared was certainly going to need more than he could give. “Well, you’d better get used to it, because there’s little else they drink at Morgan. I often think there’s more wine than blood in some courtiers’ veins.”

He handed over a half full cup. Although Jared should have the body weight to cope with such a small amount easily, wine took everyone differently, and Jensen had no desire to have to sling Jared hungover across his saddle like a sack of grain in the morning. He knew the misery of that from personal experience.

Jared stared into the depths, seemingly mesmerized, until Jensen clinked the cup with his own. “Drink up!”

Jensen didn’t laugh at the face Jared made after his first swig, but it was a near thing. _The poor stripling,_ he thought, _this vintage is particularly potent, too._

Jensen let his own sip roll around in his mouth.

“And you say people drink this because they like the taste?” Jared asked skeptically. 

A little laugh did escape at that. “Some,” Jensen replied, taking another drink with relish. “Some appreciate it for its other properties.” 

Jared sighed. “One more thing to learn.” He tilted his cup back for a big gulp and came up coughing.

“Now, now, Jared. Don’t rush to master this particular task too quickly,” Jensen cautioned, recalling some of his own youthful drinking follies, feeling a hundred years old. “The faster you go, the worse it will be for you. Wine makes us sinners at night, and penitents the next day.” 

“Is it the wine talking, or are you always this pompous?” Jared said witheringly, and then covered his mouth with a hand in surprise. “Oh. I beg pardon.” He looked down into his cup and back at Jensen, smiling a bit more easily. “This does work fast, doesn’t it?”

“Never say I didn’t warn you.” Jensen grinned back and poured them each just a fingerful more. Enough for practice, not enough for repentance. 

“So, tell me about the court,” Jared said after a moment. “About the nobles who I should seek out, or who will seek me out—” he made a face, the same face as when he sipped the wine, “—to wed.” 

Jensen realized—how odd—that he’d almost forgotten about that part of this mission of the Queen’s. He felt a jolt of distaste at having to choose a partner in such haste, from among strangers. Of Jared having to do so. “I ought not,” Jensen answered reluctantly. “You should see for yourself, determine for yourself, without my preferences biasing you.”

“But you’re my Warden? Who else can I ask? Besides, if the King trusts your counsel, it’s certainly good enough to advise me.”

Jensen considered, trying to remember which of the unwed heirs at court had Padalecki ties. The bargain that had been struck required Jared marry a cousin, a proper descendent of the house. Jensen did not pay as much attention to the various legal bonds and lines of succession as some did, but he knew of at least a few: Pellegrino’s nieces, some of the Connell clan certainly, perhaps Lady Huffman herself, now that she was widowed, or one of her kin. But each prospect Jensen’s mind conjured up seemed ludicrous paired with this earnest boy before him. 

He was saved by a sudden rustle of movement around the guards’ fire as they began to sort themselves into shifts for sentry and sleep. 

“Let’s save that discussion for later,” Jensen said. “We have plenty of time on the journey ahead. In the meantime, I imagine you’re worn out.”

“You do not have to send me to bed like a toddler,” Jared scowled, but he immediately ruined his claim by giving in to an enormous yawn. 

Jensen chuckled. “Come on. It may be nigh on summer, but it’s likely to get cold in the night. The tent is a better spot for sleeping than out in the air.” 

As Jared clambered to his feet, Jensen went the opposite direction to check the camp’s boundaries for himself, glancing over the dark lumps of the slumbering horses and speaking with the guards briefly, making sure all was settled for the night watch. It wasn’t until he circled round to the front of his tent that it dawned on him that he would be sharing it, lying next to Jared all night long in close quarters. 

He gave a brief thought to rolling up in his cloak by the fire, but he’d already ruled out sleeping there to Jared. What explanation could he give, other than one that would expose this—this unsuitable desire? 

But perhaps Jared was not as bashful has he seemed. Although members of the Brotherhood and Sisterhood were pledged to be chaste, in practice Jensen knew they frequently took lovers. Perhaps Jared was already well-practiced in bed. Perhaps he was inside their tent right now, stripped naked and wanton and eager for some paltry tryst before fettering himself to a noble spouse. Jensen was set aflame by the image the thought conjured.

He clutched the fabric of the tent in his fist and shook himself. This was madness. 

He drew open the flap and ducked inside. There was barely enough light to see, but there was Jared, tightly wrapped in his set of blankets, huddled as close against the far wall of the tent as he could get, his back to Jensen and face obscured. Everything about his posture shouted, _Leave me be._ He showed none of the promiscuity of Jensen’s lewd fantasy, and none of the amicable friendliness from out by the fire, either.

Apparently Jared was no fonder of the idea of sharing the tent than Jensen was, but for contrary reasons.

Jensen sighed silently and sat down to pull off his boots, careful not to intrude into Jared’s space. That wasn’t hard, as Jared was curled into a smaller ball than Jensen would have thought possible. He lay down on his own bedding and stared up toward the darkness that was the roof of the tent. It was going to be a long night.

*****

 

Jensen was jerked abruptly from sleep to waking like a fish with a hook in its mouth. He sat up, pushing his blanket away. It was pitch black inside the tent, but he could sense right away that the space next to him was empty. Jared was gone.

Instantly, Jensen was scrambling out through the narrow flap. He only relaxed when he saw Jared’s silhouette hunched once more by the ruby-red embers of the banked campfire. Jensen rubbed a hand over his face. He glanced over and nodded toward Adrienne, keeping a turn at watch with her back against a perimeter tree, then walked over to sit across from his Ward, willing his heart rate to ease back to normal levels.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Jared murmured, barely louder than the rustle of breeze through the unseen treetops.

“You didn’t,” Jensen answered. “But are you well?”

“Yes.”

It came out quick, terse. Jensen allowed the quiet that followed to sit and simmer.

“No,” Jared admitted finally. “No, I’m—I’m afraid. I don’t know how to lead them or hold them together, Jensen. To learn what I must. To earn their trust. To make them overlook my illegitimacy.” 

It was the first time that he’d called Jensen by his given name, and just that small familiarity told Jensen how much Jared was struggling, how in need he was of a friend. He looked so young and vulnerable there in the dark, nervously peeling bark from a stick in his hand. Jensen felt the strong impulse to take him into his arms. Not amorously—not this time—but for comfort. 

But who was he to offer comfort? Or help? Jensen was a fighter, fine for leading troops in war, he’d acknowledge, and maybe even for navigating a world that thinks little of one’s parentage. But he knew less than Jared himself about administering estates or ruling noblemen. Jared needed a stronger bulwark than Jensen could possibly provide. Maybe—

“How would your father approach it?” he asked. 

“My father?”

“Yes. I think most would agree Lord Gerald was a clever and capable man when it came to dealing with his vassals, and the, um, challenging personalities at Court as well. Although,” Jensen backtracked, “you told me you’ve lived apart from him a long time. Perhaps you don’t remember him well? I was just wondering, whether there’s a chance you could simply… do as he would?”

Jared turned to stare at him, the look of surprise on his face at the suggestion quickly melting into determination. “By the Two,” he whispered, half to Jensen, half to himself. “I think I can make that work.”

*****

 

They had several hours more travel the next morning, the thick, old-growth canopy soaring high above them like a green sky. But when they emerged from the forest, a keep stood just before them on a hill among early-sprouting fields of barley. Clusters of thatched-roof houses and gardens and groves dotted the road that wound up to its gate.

“My father’s vassal—“ Jared began.

“Your vassal,” Jensen corrected, calling back for the guard to line up in fine order behind them. They might be few, but Jared should be seen escorted with all dignity. 

“My vassal,” Jared echoed, rolling it around in his mouth. “Sir Steven has held these lands for us for many years, and his grandmother and father before him.” 

Broad iron gates stood open and a steady stream of folk from village and castle flowed on foot beneath the arched brick, but made way as their troop of horses trotted past. Jensen moved forward to take the lead, scanning the bailey as they enter for signs of ill-will or any other trouble. There was evidence of disrepair to the outbuildings—roof tiles in need of replacement, green sprouting in the eaves’ gutters, and piles of rubbish in the corners of the courtyard—but no source of danger Jensen could detect.

Jensen could feel eyes upon them from around the courtyard and up on the battlements above as they dismounted, but that was to be expected at the appearance of strangers. Jared didn’t seem to notice, his eyes wide as platters as he took in everything around them. 

A man strode out from the door of the keep proper to meet them. He was tough and lean, a touch of gray lightening his dark mustache and wiry, close-cropped hair.

“Greetings, Sir Steven,” Jared hailed him, swinging out of the saddle and striding forward. Jensen recognized the differences immediately: the lower pitch of Jared’s voice, the stronger set to his shoulders. Jared had drawn an air of confidence around himself like a rich mantle.

“Jared FitzGerald? Look at you, boy!” the knight said, laughing as he deliberately scanned up and down Jared’s height. “You’re twice the size you were when I saw you last!” 

“And you haven’t changed a bit.” Jared smiled in reply and stepped forward into the man’s arms for a quick embrace. “But I am here to give you the news that I am FitzGerald no longer.” He stepped back and held out the hand with the Padalecki signet the Queen had given him, its etched gold glinting beacon-bright in the sunlight. “The King has decreed I should take on my father’s honors, once I marry a true Padalecki cousin at court.”

Jensen had to tamp down a grin at how self-assured Jared sounded, how authoritative. No sign of the uncertainties that had plagued him the night prior, the shy mannerisms of the boy on horseback the day before.

Sir Steven’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but that quickly gave way to a look of relief and satisfaction. “That is indeed wise of His Highness.” He went on a bit gruffly, “I’ll admit I didn’t always agree with the choices your father—gods love him—made about your upbringing, but— True Son or not—I have always known you to be a Padalecki at heart. No other lord would be more fit to rule these lands, I tell you.” 

Jared swallowed hard, but gave no other sign that the words had great import to him. He simply turned toward Jensen, drawing him forward. “Steven, this is Sir Jensen of Ackles, my escort and the Warden appointed by the Crown.”

Steven clasped hands with him, “I’ve heard your name spoken highly of. And that was even before the tale of your heroic rescue of the King in the last battle with the Empire. We should all give you thanks for saving his life. You’re always welcome here.” 

Jensen ignored the startled look Jared threw at him, surprised and discomfited that stories of his role in that final battle had spread this far. “I was but one man of many on the field that day,” he responded. 

Strangely, Jensen thought he could smell the unexpected whiff of whiskey on Sir Steven’s breath. He checked the sun’s position in the sky. Not yet noon. An odd time for drink.

“Perhaps, Steven,” Jared said, a hint of sharpness in his tone, “You’ll spin that story for me, since my guardian has neglected to tell me it.” He glared at Jensen, who simply shrugged innocently. What time had they to talk of former encounters on the field? “But in the meantime,” Jared went on, more merrily. “Where is James? Tinkering with devices in his workshop, I would guess?” 

Their host abruptly looked away, his lingering smile wiped clean, his dark face settling into deep lines. “My Jim is gone. Died—“ the word choked the man’s throat “—not seven months past. Took a blow to his head while hunting. Woke just once to say a few words, then he was gone.” 

Jared swayed as if he wanted to step close and embrace his vassal once more, but he did not. He merely said in a low voice. “So much loss. Your husband, my siblings, my father.” He dropped his head. “Perhaps we Padaleckis are cursed.”

“No,” Steven said curtly, voicing Jensen’s own unspoken protest. “Don’t say that. Don’t believe it. Accidents happen, people are born and sometimes they die sooner than we’d wish it, but that’s the way the world works.”

Jared’s head snapped up. He gestured to the dilapidated row of outbuildings. “Is that why the bailey sits unswept and the cookhouse roof is falling in?” Jared spoke the words, but Jensen heard the echo of someone else in his voice. “Is that why none of the grooms have come to take our horses? Is this what Sir James would want? To see you neglect your duty and leave the castle to fall into disorder?”

Steven held Jared’s hard gaze, the moment thick with emotion.

If this was how Lord Gerald had behaved, Jensen thought, he certainly earned his reputation for bluntness. 

But just as Jensen steeled himself for further conflict, perhaps even the need to protect Jared physically, his Ward continued on, softly now. “If I am to rule these lands and you are to govern here as my liegeman, we both must master our grief and be good stewards for our people.” He held up a placating hand. “Let us go in and refresh ourselves, and at supper we can speak at more length.”

Steven reached out, clapped Jared on the shoulder. “Yes. That’s a wise suggestion, son.” The corner of his stern mouth twitched upward. “I mean, my lord.” Together they turned and headed toward the castle in step.

Jared shot an uncertain look over his shoulder at Jensen. He mouthed the words, _Was that alright?_

Jensen nodded firmly, then gave Jared an encouraging grin, and followed them into the hall.

During luncheon, Steven told them of the fortunes of the Williamshire holdings. Prosperous harvests, but followed by trouble with neighboring brigands raiding the farmer’s barns and silos nearest the border and stealing cartloads of grain. The vassal took a gulp of ale. For a moment he stared into the bottom of his mug, then set it firmly aside. “Jim would never have stood for it.” 

“Imagine the names he would have called them as he ran the thieves off,” Jared laughed, lightening the moment as best he could. But Jensen could tell Steven was embarrassed that he had not addressed the problem himself. 

Later, servants showed Jared to a set of rooms on the second floor, his parents’ chambers, rich in tapestries and soft bleached bedlinens and carved oaken chests. Jensen demurred from such luxury and requested a simple wall chamber off the main hall. He intended to keep a low profile. It might allow the castlefolk see Jared as the new Lord Padalecki, garnering all the honors of his station. Let him alone stand above Steven and the others, without Jensen—as a King’s knight from Morgan—encroaching on his burgeoning authority. 

However, he had little chance to put this plan into effect, as Jared appeared in his doorway a scant few minutes later.

“So, if you please,” Jared inquired, smiling like a child hoping for a sweet. “Come with me to explore my castle?”

It did not bode well for his Wardenship, Jensen scolded himself as he stood and followed, that he caved at the first sight of an entreating look on Jared’s face.

First, Jared led him back downstairs and out to the stalls to check on the horses, then to the garrison to make sure the troop had settled in. From there they wandered. Up onto the keep walls, where sentries played dice in the watchtowers, down to the rough palisade of logs built in the outer bailey to confine the milk goats, plus sheep and hogs for the kitchens. They cut through the gardens, where Jared stopped to talk to a young cook picking herbs. Jensen noticed that Jared gravitated to the lesser servants during his rounds—the dogboy not the head groomsman, a man-at-arms not the captain lounging idle in the barracks—as if used to avoiding the higher-ranking staff. 

As Jared pushed through a nondescript door in the main hall that opened to reveal a staircase leading down into a series of basements, Jensen had to ask, “Tell me again how old you were the last time you were here?”

“My eldest brother, Jeffrey, named after His Majesty, brought me with him on a visit when I was perhaps twelve.” Jared paused to grab a torch that burned in a nearby sconce and held it out for light. The dense, oily smell of the torch’s pitch curled back up toward them. They descended the stair. 

“How in the world can you remember so much?” Jensen replied.

Jared shrugged. “Well, as I recall, we stayed for more than a month. I had a great deal of time to investigate.” A sheepish smile appeared. “And I’ve always been very curious.” 

They rounded a corner, Jared holding the torch high. Nevertheless both of them nearly tripped and stumbled over a large pile of armor—breastplates, helms, weaponry of all sorts, including a matchstick-stack of swords and morningstars—left forgotten and rusting in the empty cellar. 

“What is this?” Jared exclaimed, nudging a heap of shields with the toe of his boot. 

“It’s a waste? A disgrace?” Jensen tried to make it come out lightly, but did quite succeed. They’d both seen how undermanned the castle guard was, how lax the discipline. This was simply the clearest example.

“Try not to think too poorly of Sir Steven,” Jared said. “He and his husband were together many years. I’m afraid he let James take on most of the household duties.”

“Even if your heart is tender, I’m not sure you should let that continue as an excuse, _my lord_ ,” Jensen replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Ugh. Stop that.” Jared waved off the honorific. “But you’re right. About the need for change here, that is.”

Jensen sensed a little of Jared’s uncertainty sneaking back into his tone. “Your father—“ he began.

“My father,” Jared cut him off, “would likely order a prompt round of public whippings or immediately strip Steven of his title, neither of which I’m prepared to do.” He sighed. Then a moment later he locked eyes with Jensen, his expression suddenly alight. “But I have another idea.”

Jensen followed fast on his heels as Jared took the stairs two at a time, rushing to the Great Hall and calling for the nearest servants to gather around. He hopped up on one of the trestle benches, and turned to address the host of listeners, growing larger as more trickled in from the kitchens and bailey to see what was happening. 

“Spread the word around the keep,” Jared said, standing tall, his voice carrying to the back of the room. “There are spare arms and armor lying neglected in the cellars. Any who would volunteer to help clean and repair them are welcome to join me when Sir Steven and I ride out tomorrow. Thieves from the Stuart lands have been raiding our local farms, and I mean to rout them out!” 

A cheer went up from the crowd, and Jared peered around, grinning down at them with relief at the response. Jensen had to laugh to himself. It was an… interesting solution. Williamston was short of men- and women-at-arms, and many in the keep would jump at Jared’s offer with alacrity, each of them hoping for the chance at promotion from servant to soldier. Questions about mounts for tomorrow? For resources to train the new recruits in arms? For replacing workers who left necessary chores to play soldier with them? Jensen doubted if Jared had thought that far ahead. But he could work it out with Steven and the indolent captain of the guards. 

A festival mood occupied the castle the rest of the day and into the evening. Animated chatter, people hustling from task to task with a spring in their steps, even those not involved in the rehabilitation of the arms. Clearly, Jared’s people were hungry for energy and purpose after months living under the shadow of Steven’s mourning and maudlin drinking.

Jensen’s last concern was assuaged when, at dinner, Steven simply exchanged an amused and rueful glance with him before turning to Jared to discuss details for the morrow’s expedition. 

That night, as he prepared for bed, Jensen stretched and twisted, testing his ribs. A sharp twinge told him he was still healing, but nothing that should interfere with a trifling encounter with country bandits.

*****

 

For a second night in a row, Jensen woke with a start.

For the second night in a row, he discovered Jared awake and brooding. This time he didn’t have far to go. His Ward was sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor, huddled up next to Jensen’s bed like a hound.

“No campfire here,” Jensen murmured softly into the darkness, trying not to startle him. 

“No, but still a good place to talk.”

Jensen pushed aside the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bedframe. He thought about sliding down to sit next to Jared, but that seemed perhaps too intimate. _More intimate than a midnight visit alone to my rooms?_ Jensen swiftly grabbed the stray thought and stuffed it away in the box he’d constructed for all his unsuitable feelings. 

“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Jared continued miserably. 

“What’s that?” Jensen thought it possible he would lift the entire keep onto his own shoulders if that would take the defeated droop out of Jared’s. 

“For all my father cherished me, I suppose, he did take every precaution to keep me from developing as a possible rival to my brother and sister.” 

Jensen waited. He was getting good at waiting Jared out. 

“I so bravely offered to ride out tomorrow at the head of our party but—but, I have no experience in arms. The gods know, I’ve never even held a sword but once or twice in my life.” 

Jensen swallowed a laugh that might bruise Jared’s already tender feelings. He’d been braced for something much worse than this. “Jared, we’re not heading out to clash with a mighty army. This is just a pack of thieves, scavenger crows taking advantage of what have been easy pickings. They will scatter to the winds when they see us. I doubt I’ll even have to unsheathe my sword.” 

“Easy for you to say,” Jared grumbled. “You’re not the one with less prowess at arms than a babe.”

Jensen replied, “Fighting is never easy, but leading is harder. I believe you have a talent for it. Any fool can learn swordplay.” 

“But what will the troops think? Your soldiers? The new recruits? You tell me to emulate my father, but he was one of the greatest fighters in the land. What will our people think of a lord who cannot defend them?” 

_They are not ‘our’ people, but yours,_ Jensen wanted to protest, but that was not the important point right now. “Trust me,” he said instead, “they won’t even know, and even if they did, it would not matter.”

Then he yawned. 

At that, Jared began to scramble to his feet. “What am I doing? It’s so late. I should—I mean—thank you. I’m sorry to disturb you again with all my worrying.” 

“No, no,” Jensen replied. “It’s no trouble at all. You’re welcome to come to me every night.” 

Oh gods. He bit his tongue, cursing himself at the thoughtless double meaning. But Jared seemed not to take offense, as oblivious as ever.

“Indeed. Yes. Thank you.” He ducked his head, his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And he slipped from the room and was gone.

*****

 

With his helm slung on the back of his saddle, Jensen savored the early morning breeze playing in his hair and slipping through the fine mesh links of his hauberk, cool and fresh. It was a beautiful day for a ride, even though they took it for duty, not pleasure.

He glanced over at Jared, fiddling unnecessarily with his reins. 

Jensen had not the rank to keep a squire, and Steven was fostering none at the moment either, so earlier, at dawn, Jensen himself had helped Jared arm. He’d smoothed the quilted gambeson so that it would not chafe, and then helped Jared into a short haubergeon. He’d knelt to buckle on greaves to protect Jared’s legs and fastened a gorget to protect his slender neck, finally lifting a cuirass over his head to set atop all. 

Under his hands, Jared had trembled like a young horse being saddled for the first time. And even though that was only the result of Jared’s nervousness, to feel him quiver, the nearness of him had made Jensen’s breath speed too quick, his pulse too. He’d had to flee to the privacy of his rooms the moment they were done. 

But now here they were, and aside from Jared’s fidgeting, both of them were as mild as milk as they rode at the head of the company beside Sir Steven.

Jensen had instructed his own six and the twelve of Steven’s veterans who joined them to seed themselves throughout the rest of the group of novices. He could hear them murmuring advice and once barking an insult when one of Steven’s men almost slit his damn horse’s throat. Jared needed no such coaching, carrying the weight of his armor lightly, riding flawlessly. Jensen was tempted to compliment him but didn’t want to give away Jared’s inexperience to the recruits. 

Steven signaled that the farm they sought was just beyond the next rise. 

As they topped the hill, however, and the scene below came into view, Jensen realized they had underestimated their adversaries. There was a small band of coarsely-dressed laborers gathered around a barn, several chucking sacks of grain down from the loft to hands waiting below to load into a cart. But, in addition, assembled nearby was a mounted troop, all arrayed in arms and armor. Jensen counted thirteen. This would have given Williamston’s troop the odds. That is, if they weren’t burdened by the greenhorns accompanying them. As it was, Jensen feared that making this their first fight—Jared’s first—could easily go sour.

He turned to Jared and Steven, expecting to see his own concern mirrored in them. Instead they were staring down at the intruders, infuriated.

“Our property, our goods, my lord,” Steven growled.

“Aye,” Jared said, his lips pressed in a thin line. 

Jensen guided Shadow closer to Faith so he could speak in low tones. “We should retreat, Jared,” he urged. 

“What? No! We cannot let them get away with this!”

“It’s not safe for you… or these others,” Jensen added, thinking concern for the men and women more likely to sway Jared than personal safety.

Steven looked around like he’d just remembered their tag-alongs. “Sir Jensen’s right,” he admitted begrudgingly. 

Jensen sympathized, it burned him too, to be on the cusp of action and withdraw. And yet. 

“But Jensen—” Jared implored, pointing to where the raiders were swarming down from the barn and the small force of soldiers forming up in protective lines. “They are readying to escape.” Before Jensen could protest further, he went on. “Can not I stay here with the castlefolk while you engage? I’m prepared to fight, or—or try to anyway, but I’m also willing to stay behind rather than have all of us turn back while they pillage the farm under our noses.”

“It’s not safe,” Jensen said again, glancing over his shoulder, knowing his sole duty was Jared’s well-being and trying not to be tempted. 

“I swear we will fly back to the keep at the first sign of any danger up here.”

Steven said nothing, but looked pleadingly at Jensen, too. He took a longer look back down into the valley, his blood already rising at the thought of a skirmish, of triumphing under Jared’s watchful eye. 

“Please,” Jared said earnestly, with a face not even the Two could resist. “Protect my lands, sir, as I cannot do it for myself.”

“Alack!” Jensen teased, “Are we now players in a pageant for you to make such dramatic proclamations?”

Jared huffed and grinned, sensing he had won, and kicked a foot out at Jensen’s calf. “Go to. The chance to rout them will be over while you stand here mocking me.”

Jensen nodded to Steven, who swiftly set about ordering their veteran troops and sending the others to surround their lord, for what good they might do him. Jensen pulled his helm on and snapped the visor down before turning again to Jared. “Do not come any closer,” he ordered. 

“I shall not.”

Jensen saw that his fighting force was ready, and unsheathed his sword, but waited for Sir Steven, as Padalecki’s man, to give the command to charge.

“For Lecki! For Lecki!” Steven cried, spurring his mount to charge the force below.

“For Morgan and for Lecki!” Jensen shouted, letting Shadow loose and thundering down the hill with the rest of the company, the tolling clash of armor and beat of hooves making his heart sing. For all his injuries and those to his comrades in the recent war, he could not deny that he was, at his core, meant to fight.

In the end, Jensen’s initial prediction was correct: he’d hardly needed to draw his sword. The intruders had neither the skill, the heart, nor the high ground that the Padalecki force had, and it only took moments after the two troops came together that the soldiers from Stuart took flight, unceremoniously abandoning the carts of stolen grain and their unmounted compatriots. 

Sir Steven led the victorious crew back up the hill, prisoners in tow, to the cheers of Jared and Williamston’s new would-be soldiers. As they all feasted that night, Jensen noted renewed energy in Steven’s demeanor, as he and Jared eagerly planned the training of new troops and the assignment of new patrols to halt any further incursions onto their lands.

*****

 

They left the castle the next day, their road east leading through immense stands of cedar pricked here and there with groves of white paper birch. That evening, when once more it was just the two of them and their escort of six camping out under the stars, Jensen finally conferred with Jared on the visit.

“You did well,” he offered. He did not add, _better than I expected_. Or even, _better than I would have._

“I’m not sure what it all means for the future, but thank you. Steven was a good and loyal liegeman to my father, and I hope this means he will be for me.“ Then Jared sighed. “However, it was but one holding out of dozens, one major keep out of eight.”

“And they will come around in time as well. Do you doubt the rest will cleave to you?” Now that Jared had one success under his belt, Jensen anticipated that others might quickly follow. And why wouldn’t they? Jared was all his people could ask for in an heir. 

“I fear time is the problem,” Jared said earnestly, looking deep into the fire as if to read answers there. “The longer it takes for me to consolidate my claim—even one backed by the Crown—the more likely this vassal or that will look to one of my neighbors for better surety, or even enrichment, and change allegiances. Think of Nemec on my far eastern border with Huffman. All Sir Colin would need to do is open its gates, and Lady Alaina would happily walk right in. I’m worried Padalecki could be eroded away at the edges.” 

That deflated Jensen’s optimism a bit. He couldn’t rule it out. The Queen had said the other peers were waiting to see what happened. Who knew how long they’d hesitate? 

Unfortunately, the best course of action Jensen could see was to get Jared quickly to Court, wedded and bedded and bound to a strong enough ally to assure his vassals of the stability of Jared’s rule. 

And if Jensen himself would have rather preferred to string out these days of travel, more nights by the fireside in Jared’s company? Well. Duty had a stronger claim.

*****

 

But just as Jensen predicted, Jared was well-received in every place they stopped as they traversed the Padalecki lands. When they visited the small holding of Macon—barely more than a hamlet surrounded by pastureland, but where most of the kingdom’s finest cheeses were produced— Jared followed the couple who had stewardship for him all around the fields and the outbuildings.

He asked dozens of surprisingly pertinent questions about the pressing of whey and the ageing process, sampling and discussing the attributes of cow and goats milk, all while carrying the couple’s two-year old daughter aloft on his shoulders. And if Jensen could not quite follow the conversation about the optimal length of curdling, Jared seemed to have no trouble. What Jensen certainly could not miss were the approving looks Caroline flashed at Jared, nor the hearty way Peter called him “my lord” as they clasped hands farewell.

At their next stop, the keep at Day, Lady Felicia opened her gates with a bit more skepticism. She had only come into the position of castellan a few years prior, long after Jared had been tucked away at the monastery. She examined Jared’s signet closely, heard the King’s command, and with barely concealed reluctance, shepherded them into the keep proper. It was not until Jared engaged Felicia’s wife, Lady Tiio, in a spirited conversation regarding a particular botanical treatise on the cultivation of greens that Jensen felt Felicia began to soften. 

When Jensen saw her nodding in approval at Jared’s thorough knowledge of the crops her tenants grew, he leaned toward her, offering her more stew from the serving plate at hand.

“He’ll be a good overlord, young though he is,” Jensen murmured as they ate a simple meal, spooning generous portions of carrots and meat onto her trencher. _As if either she or I have so many more years under our belts,_ he thought wryly.

“Perhaps,” Felicia conceded. “What choice have I but to accept him?” 

“Very little,” Jensen acknowledged, “it’s true. Is it his lack of traditional birthright that troubles you?” He refused to use the word ‘bastard.’ And although it rankled Jensen that she might hold that against Jared, he kept any expression beyond simple curiosity from his face.

The castellan glanced toward Jared and Tiio—both now laughing as Jared sneaked tidbits from his plate to a small black puppy scuffling under the table—then back to Jensen. 

“No,” she said. “No. It will just take time to become accustomed. My whole life, the Day Family has lived in service to Lord Gerald.” She was quiet for a moment, then went on. “I think—for those like me who hold to Padalecki but know naught of Lord Jared—much will hinge on whom he chooses in this proposed marriage alliance. I’ll say straight out, Sir Jensen, there is bad blood with both the Connell and Hoflin clans in these parts. There would be—” she picked her words carefully, “—a lack of enthusiasm for our new Lord were he to be a puppet with either of them pulling the strings.”

Jensen nodded. “I see,” he said noncommittally. He wished the Queen had told him more. He had no idea which of the great houses would have suitable candidates to propose for Jared. How close a cousin would the Queen’s plan demand? There was extensive intermarriage among the noble families, and Jensen had a sudden mental image of a line of suitors snaking around the Great Hall at Morgan and out its front gates.

“He is your Ward…” Felicia prompted.

“Yes, but I have no say in his choice of bride or groom.”

He saw her glance from Jared and back to him, then raise her eyebrows in feigned surprise. But she said no more on the topic.

*****

 

They continued eastward, through the small holdings of Brownstead and Mills, Jared continuing to either charm or impress his new subjects at each stop.

At last they reached the boundaries of the seat of Jared’s lands, the main Padalecki keep at Saint Anthony. Jensen didn’t need a map to tell him. He could see it in the quickening of Faith’s pace. And by how Jared leaned forward as if he had the urge to get down from the saddle and run.

Saint Anthony itself sat atop a ridge of stone overlooking the river that flowed from the fresh water springs a few miles beyond. The river rapids poured down smoothly on their left, filling the whole of the valley with the sound of running water. A town huddled in the shadow of the keep’s great stone walls and spilled down the road, inns and crafthalls, markets and smithies, houses with white siding and red tile roofs all clustering along the riverfront. As they rode up the wide thoroughfare to the castle, children stopped their play in the dirt to gape at their company as it jangled by, gathering to trot along behind in a noisy pack like pups. 

There was a sense of peace and prosperity here. The very air of the place seemed to wrap Jensen like a blanket that had been warmed in the clean-scented sunshine.

Fast as their progress across the Padalecki lands had been, word of their travels had clearly preceded them, as guards stationed on the battlements called down to Jared by name. 

Over the drawbridge and under the great portcullis with its jagged row of teeth and into the wide courtyard they rode, Jared in the lead, practically galloping at this point. Jensen was concerned he might run down an unsuspecting porter or scullery maid at that speed, but Jared managed to enter the clear without incident. As soon as he drew Faith to a halt, he threw down the reins, sliding from the saddle to stride toward a couple standing before a small gathering of servants arrayed in rows. A welcome party.

The man in front was bald with a trim gray beard, but tall and hearty. The woman next to him of an age, slender with sharp-features. The two of them watched Jared dismount, and as he neared, the woman smiled and held out her arms toward him. Jared broke into a run.

Jensen watched as he threw himself into her embrace, and although Jared topped her head and shoulders, she wrapped herself around him, the man’s arms coming up to encircle them both. 

“Your father. Jeff. Meg. We’ve lost them. But we still have you,” Jensen heard the man say.

And if all three wept together before the eyes of the entire keep, it was simply a fitting tribute to Lord Gerald Padalecki and his True Children.

*****

 

Jensen learned that Mitchell and Allison had served the Padaleckis as stewards of Saint Anthony for many decades, before Gerald’s marriage, through frequent wars and periods of peace, through the births of his children and the scandal that surrounded his relationship with Jared’s mother. They were cordial in welcoming Jensen and his troop, but it was clear their focus was on Jared.

The couple drew Jared forward to introduce him—or reintroduce, as many knew him as a child—to the chief servants arrayed in the yard, then, once inside carefully saw to all of Jared’s comforts and eagerly listened to the news of the bargain he’d struck with the Queen for Padalecki’s succession. They reminisced and laughed at old memories of Jared’s youth, they petted and cosseted him, calling for cool fruited drinks and pastries. It was only with poorly-disguised reluctance that they let him excuse himself—and Jensen, who had sat mostly mute in his seat next to Jared—to change from their riding clothes and wash. 

Jensen found himself irrationally torn. On the one hand he was grateful that Jared had someone to provide such genuine caring and concern, such support. On the other—much to his shame—he found he was jealous.

He realized that, although he’d resisted at first, in this past week he had settled into the role of Jared’s confidante and adherent. The title of Warden had come to seem less a foolish caprice of the Queen’s and more something he valued, wore proudly.

And it wasn’t as if he did not still have that. Jared’s relationship with his father’s retainers need not negate it. 

If only his head would tell that to his heart. 

“They always did look out for me,” Jared was saying as they walked. 

“Hmm?” Jensen looked up from his reverie, taking note of the fact that they were headed down a wide hallway topped by a vaulted roof of window-pierced stone. It was lined with innumerable paintings. They were the Padalecki kin, generations posed in state, from a silent-looking woman who gripped a double-bladed dagger to a knight in gold-gilt armor standing over the slain form of a winged dragon. 

“Mitch. And Allison. They have always been that kind. Other members of the castle staff weren’t sure how to treat me. Looking back, I think there was a certain amount of resentment and outrage over my mother’s… encroachment into the lives of the Lord and Lady.”

“But you were just a child,” Jensen replied indignantly.

Jared looked sidelong at him and shrugged. “No, no. It’s fine. Few were outright cruel to me. They were just—“ Jared trailed off, a faraway look overcoming his countenance. “Well, Mitch and Allison were particular allies, let’s simply say that.”

It did not take long for Jensen to settle into his room. It was the most luxurious quarters he’d ever been allotted—even at Morgan. This chamber had a huge bed strung with rich red hangings adorned with the gold Padalecki seal and piled so high with silky-soft featherbeds and bolsters that he feared he’d be injured if he rolled off during the night. He could not imagine that the master suite—where Jared had, after much urging, taken residence—was any finer. 

His rooms were also near to Jared’s, but when Jensen went looking for his Ward, he was already gone. A brief inquiry with one of the servants in the hall sent Jensen up another flight of wide stairs and down a hall to a door that stood twice as tall as he. He pushed it open and was astonished by what he found inside.

It was a library. Tall shelves lined with more books than Jensen had ever seen were set in neat rows like foot-soldiers’ ranks. A miracle of tiny glazed-glass panes covered the far wall, letting in the streaming light of afternoon sun and making the room as bright as if they were standing in a field, with no need for torches or candles. Dust motes pirouetted over Jared’s head where he sat at a sturdy oaken table in the middle of the room, slowly turning the page of a tome nearly as broad Jensen’s shield.

“This is amazing,” Jensen whispered. 

“Isn’t it, though?” Jared replied, standing with a proud smile of greeting. “I’ll admit it is my favorite place of anywhere on earth.”

“Where did all of these come from?” 

“Years of collecting and commissions from the Brotherhood going generations back. Padaleckis bartering like fishwives for any volume they could find,” he grinned wider. “Perhaps some that were ‘liberated’ during the conquest of an adversary’s keep in some past campaign, but I wouldn’t know about those.” 

Happiness, ease. This is how it looked on Jared. Jensen cherished getting to see it.

Jared glanced around. “I’m just relieved to see that it’s still here.”

“Well, you can spend all the time you wish adding to the collection.” 

“Once I’m wed,” Jared replied, some of the animation draining from his face.

“Once you are confirmed as Lord Padalecki,” Jensen amended. Jared had been ambivalent about marriage from the first, but over the past week he’d seemed less and less enthusiastic, and Jensen couldn’t figure out why. But reluctance wasn’t going to make the task set by the Queen any easier. Jensen must provide wind for Jared’s sails on her behalf. 

“Indeed.” Jared squared his shoulders at Jensen’s words, then turned to walk to one of the shelves, selecting several books and stacking them near-to-hand at his seat. “Will you think I am a poor host if I continue my research until it is time to dine?” 

“No,” Jensen said. “What are you reading about now?” 

Jared looked down at the set of leather-bound manuscripts before him. “Oh,” he said. “Just more histories.” His tone was odd, but Jensen didn’t press. Jared was probably simply impatient to get back to his studies, and here was Jensen, importuning him with conversation. 

“Ah then, I wish you well with it. I’ll see to myself until you’re free again, my lord.” 

“’My lord?’” Jared challenged, as he always did. “Still not a title I have earned. Especially not in this place.” 

“A marriage contract may give you formal dominion here, but it will not make you lord of the land,” Jensen said firmly. “I would say that’s a quality that lies within.” He gave Jared a little bow, only half-mocking, as he stepped back out the library door. “ _My lord._ ”

He left Jared to his reading and wandered down to the stables. Shadow was in a stall quartered right next to Faith, and the horse raised his head with a whicker when Jensen entered through the double doors. The air was still, but not uncomfortably close or foul, and the stalls were clean, the bedding deep underfoot. 

Jensen didn’t catch sight of any grooms wandering about, but both horses had clearly been cared for, curried to gleaming, Shadow’s dark hide as glossy and immaculate as polished ebony. He leaned on the wall of their pen with folded arms and watched the two drink water and munch hay from a slotted trough set into the stall’s wall. He realized he was hungry himself, so he turned to see if he could locate the kitchen outbuildings just by wandering. 

The smell of baking bread guided him to a set of low-ceilinged huts. What he found was Allison, giving instructions for supper to the staff. Jensen paused a few steps inside the doors and cleared his throat. She turned to find him shuffling his feet awkwardly. 

“My lord,” she greeted him automatically. Jensen almost corrected her—no noble he—before he thought of Jared’s protests, and had to hide an incongruous smile. “Is there aught I can help you with?”

“I was hoping to raid the larder without your discovery, madam,” he admitted. “I did not want to trouble anyone for service.” 

“’Tis no trouble,” she said as she signaled to one of her helpers, and then led Jensen outside to a set of trestle tables that must be where men- and women-at-arms sometimes sat to eat. He settled himself on one of the wooden benches and was somewhat surprised when Allison sat down across from him. 

He braced himself for an interrogation. Or perhaps entreaties for special favors. Instead, she merely asked, “What is it you would know?”

“I beg pardon?”

“What can I tell you of Jared? His life here or his family or the sentiments of the castlefolk upon the death of Lord Gerald? Is there anything you would know that will assist you as you stand as Warden for him?” 

Jensen used the arrival of a servant with a platter of bread and hard cheeses to cover his surprise at her forthrightness. For a moment he was tempted to test her somehow, ferret out if there were some ulterior motive in this conversation. But a look into her calm, clear gaze convinced him to take her at her word. 

They spoke at length, the sounds from the courtyard and the daily work of the keep in soft counterpoint behind them. Jensen discovered that the people here loved Jared more than the young man realized. Allison just smiled fondly when he mentioned Jared’s comments about the servants’ treatment of him as a child, and she assured Jensen they did not then, nor did they now, blame him for being born out of wedlock. 

“If we were ever stern or hard on Jared, it was because he was a terribly mischievous child, too clever by half, and doted on by his mother and the entire noble family. The servants were the only ones to provide a jot of discipline at all.” She shot a glance up at the library windows, as if she knew that’s where Jared would be. “How he turned out to be such a fine man, I’m sure I’ll never know.”

And Jensen’s last concerns about Jared’s support among the Padalecki retainers were laid to rest.

“When must you leave for Morgan?” Allison asked. 

“The Queen gave us until week’s end for our journey,” Jensen replied. “We’ll have to leave tomorrow, or the next morning at the latest, if we’re to meet her timetable.”

“Oh! So soon!” she cried, rising to her feet. “Please excuse me, Sir Jensen.” And she sped off toward the castle proper, muttering under her breath.

*****

 

When the hour for dinner arrived, Jensen slid into his chair at the high table, still unused to being seated at such lofty position. Jared scowled at him as he sat. “I blame you for the fact I spent most of my afternoon acting as a sewing dummy for the local tailors.”

“I thought you camped out in the library?” Jensen said, smothering a laugh. 

“Allison commanded elsewise, insisting that I have no clothing fit for Court.” 

Jensen shrugged. “Do you?”

“No,” Jared admitted, spooning a helping of rich pork cassoulet onto his plate and holding the dish out to Jensen as if forgetting they had servers standing ready to do such for them. “Unless the Court’s high fashion consists of plain grey tunics and threadbare cloaks. But that did not make the task of gaining new any more pleasant.” He sighed. “And here I thought as Warden you would look after my interests.”

Jensen himself quite enjoyed indulging in the bright colors and soft fabrics of court clothes after long stretches in nothing but riding leathers, but one look at Jared’s disgruntled pout and he decided to keep his own preferences to himself. “I imagine you’ll be glad of it once we are at Morgan. You’re less likely to stand out in the wildest of purple shades than you are in your current Brotherhood drabness.” 

“Fine. Side with her.” 

Jensen grinned at how Jared managed to sulk and take a huge mouthful of food at the same time. “And just how am I supposed to get you married off if you insist upon going about in shabby clothes?” Immediately, he was sorry he said it, even as a joke.

“That’s not your responsibility,” Jared said, suddenly stern, eyes narrowed. “You get me to Court safely, I’ll take care of the marriage part. I will do my best to quickly find someone to take me off your hands.”

Jensen’s first impulse was to refute, reassure, to make Jared know that the last thing he wanted was to get rid of him. But he shut his mouth over every word.

 _He is not mine, to give or to keep_ , Jensen reminded himself, and drew his breath sharply at the pain the thought cost him. He had realized from the beginning—was it only just a week ago?—that Jared was a prize he only guarded for another. He’d recognized how much he was drawn by Jared, drawn to him in a different way from the casual, purely sexual pull he’d felt from chance partners in the past. But Jensen had quickly put that attraction aside and done his best not to think about it. He’d simply enjoyed Jared’s company and getting to know him. Enjoyed watching him meet and conquer each challenge they’d encountered. Admired his earnestness and the flashes of quick wit they shared in private. And all the while he’d tried to avoid thinking about how desirable Jared was, Jensen had been falling for him.

He did not use the word ‘love.’ Even inside his own head, Jensen’s introspection had its limits.

“And so I suppose,” Jared continued, “it is time for me to ask again: whom will I meet at court?”

“It depends,” Jensen replied, hoping Jared did not notice how withdrawn and forced his voice sounded. “We can start with an obvious question. Do you look for a bride or for a groom?” He told himself it was a natural question, but he could feel his heart halt mid-beat as he waited for Jared to respond. He didn’t even know what answer he desired or dreaded.

Jared’s determined look wavered and he broke his gaze from Jensen’s to stare down into his platter, pushing the food around distractedly. “I—I am not certain. Either, perhaps? At Tall Timber I found little opportunity for, um, experience with such matters.” 

Jensen recalled the many Brothers and Sisters he’d met over the years who had not scrupled to dally with lovers outside the bounds of their religious vows to celibacy. Of course Jared would be one who would take such vows more conscientiously than the Brothers themselves. The implication, though, that Jared was untouched, had found no lover to introduce him to the pleasures of the body, made Jensen simultaneously ache for him and ache to be the first.

 _He is not for me,_ he vowed again.

“And you?” Jared asked, as if reading Jensen’s mind. “Have you no thought of being wed yourself?” 

Jensen hesitated for a moment. It seemed wrong to talk of choice when Jared was being forced into marriage with some as-yet-unmet stranger. Then he shrugged and answered true. “I am not against marriage. It is the Twins’ will, after all, that people pair together. But I have yet to find someone—“ he searched a moment, “—someone who I can imagine spending a lifetime with. You see, my mothers married for love and their devotion shone in their faces each time one looked upon the other.” Jensen smiled a little to himself at the thought of them. It had been many long years since last he’d lived in that tiny cottage in Ackles, and he realized he missed them, in a childish way. “Since my earliest memories, that was my model, and I’m afraid their partnership has spoiled me for anything less. ”

Glancing at Jared, who was taking in this speech with great seriousness, Jensen reached out for his cup and quickly manufactured a sardonic grin before bringing it up for a long swig. Such flights of romanticism might be all well and good for a harpers’ ballad, but they had no place in the life of a common knight in the King’s service. 

“Besides, my first and best duty is to the Crown. I have no title to bequeath to heirs, nor any desire to be tied to one place. Love? Marriage? They are not for me.”

*****

 

The next morning, Jensen found himself hunting Jared down once again. Not long after dawn he’d awoken, finding himself slightly disappointed that his sleep had been uninterrupted by midnight counsels. He found he couldn’t go back to sleep, so with a sigh, he hoisted himself out of the absurd bed. Yet as early as he rose, he discovered Jared had been up before him, and he followed a trail of servants’ directions to a commotion out behind the stables.

“Strike! Harder!” Jensen heard Mitchell’s shout waft across the courtyard. Then the familiar sharp _thwack_ of wood against wood and Jensen knew what he would see before he stepped foot around the corner of the building. 

It was even better than he imagined, with Jared in the sparring circle wearing nothing but breeches and a thin, sweat-soaked linen undershirt open at the throat. Chest heaving with exertion, he faced Mitch with a sturdy wooden sword clenched in both hands. 

Jensen had spent many long hours over the years with swords like these, practicing basic solo drills and carefully wielding one during training fights. Carefully, because although they rarely caused serious injury, he’d seen plenty of broken bones and concussions as the result of a direct hit.

“Hold,” Mitch called to Jared as he spied Jensen’s approach, stepping back out of the circle. 

Jared noticed him then, too. He pursed his lips together with a look of chagrin and Jensen was sure that, had his color not already been high from exercise, he’d have been blushing. 

“Good morrow,” Jensen greeted them brightly. “Don’t let me interrupt!”

“Nay, this is as good a time as any for a break,” Mitch said, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. “Jared has been hard at work for near-on an hour now, and he’s almost worn me out.”

Impulsively, Jensen held out a hand toward Mitch’s practice sword. “May I stand in for a few minutes?” 

A grin spread across Mitch’s face, and he handed the weapon over with alacrity.

“Jensen—“ Jared said in protest, but then trailed off, as if he couldn’t come up with any good reason to demur. 

“I just want to see how you’re coming along,” Jensen insisted, hefting the sword in his hand to test its weight and squaring himself to Jared. He nodded sharply, noting how Jared set his feet, his shoulders. “Show me.”

They sparred. Jensen started slow, calling out his moves well in advance for Jared to react, simple attacks and defenses, strokes easily rebutted. But he soon realized Jared had indeed made progress in just his short time with Mitch and began to treat with more earnest. 

On it went for long minutes, both of them grinning across at each other as the swords swooped and clacked. More of the keep’s soldiers arrived at the training ground, and, rather than pairing off to spar themselves, they gathered around Mitch, all hooting and cheering for Jared. 

Jensen felt sweat begin to trickle down the small of his back as they danced around within the circle. Until finally, the swords came together with a powerful enough blow that it reverberated up his arm and down into his ribs.

“Ow,” he swore, stepping back to press a hand to his side.

“What’s wrong?” Jared asked, brow furrowing.

“It’s nothing. Just an old injury that won’t heal as quickly as I’d like.” 

“You’re injured? When? Why didn’t you say something? You shouldn’t be doing this!” 

There was no need for Jared to be so concerned. Jensen didn’t really want to argue about it. And Jared had shown skill enough that Jensen felt like he could tease. “It’s not as if I was up against true competition,” he said with a cocky smirk. 

Jared looked him up and down but must have decided not to press him about the ribs. “Someday you’ll pay for that comment,” he riposted, eyebrow up. “If you’re ever fit to fight.” 

Jensen snorted, then turned to Mitch, offering back the sword. “My thanks, sir, for letting me stand in.” 

“No, mine. For the excellent spectacle.” 

Jensen gestured with the sword before handing it over. “May we take these with us when we leave for Morgan tomorrow? My Ward could certainly use the practice.” 

“Of course,” Mitch replied, taking both his and Jared’s and tucking them under his arm. 

“And now may I ask that a bath be drawn?” Jensen asked, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I will offend at dinner without one.”

“There’s no need,” Jared chimed in eagerly. “I can’t believe I’ve yet to show you!” 

“Show me what?”

“Come on!” 

He waved farewell to Mitch and trotted back toward the keep, leaving Jensen hurrying to follow behind.

*****

 

Once inside, Jared led him through a narrow arch and down a flight of stairs. Down and down they went, the stairs turning from the familiar dark granite of the rest of the keep now to limestone, worn smooth by years of footfall. The walls became rough and pitted, raw-cut into the depths of the rock, but stayed wide enough not to be claustrophobic, with carefully-tended torches set in sconces lighting the way. The smell of mineral water drifted up to fill Jensen’s senses. He sucked in a deep breath to fill his lungs with the thick, petrichor scent.

The stairwell itself grew warmer as they descended. It must be particularly pleasant here in winter, Jensen thought. But even in the early-summer warmth, the humid air felt blissful to his stiffening muscles. 

They emerged into a huge cavern, its ceiling lost in shadows far above them. Torches hung here, too, and in their flickering glow, Jensen could see a stair-step series of large pools, water cascading down each level with an echoing hiss, steam rising in soft clouds above the gently roiling surface. All around the cavern, seats had been carved into the stone, and shelves too, many holding stacks of fabric, which Jensen assumed were for bathers to use in toweling off. 

“It’s just the same as I remembered!” Jared said, expression eager and pleased. He turned to Jensen. “The river’s source is just north of here, the fresh springs there are cold. But not these. I feel certain my father’s ancestors built atop this place just to take advantage of them.” He peered closely to see Jensen’s reaction. “What do you think?”

“Unbelievable,” Jensen said honestly. “I’ve heard tales of such places, but have never thought to visit one.”

“Wait until you try it!”

Jared stripped off his shirt hastily. His shoulders were wide, his chest and stomach carved with lean muscle like some sculptor’s dream. His breeches rode so low that Jensen could see the sharp wings of bone and the shadowed dip of his hips. Just as Jared’s hands rose to shove his breeches down, Jensen spun away. He quickly busied himself pulling off his own tunic and shirt, and found his hands shaking as he fumbled with his boots and then the tie of his chausses, finally peeling them off and kicking them away. He hoped servants might come down soon to check on them, for he badly needed a chaperone. 

That’s when he noticed Jared standing there struck still. He was staring, his gaze running up and down Jensen’s naked form. That tell-tale complexion of his flushed rose-pink down his cheeks and neck and, oh gods, his chest. 

“My—my brother and I swam here all the time. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—“ 

Jensen damned himself for a fool. Although under the same circumstances with any other unwed nobleman Jensen knew, this would be blatant invitation for dalliance. But with Jared—monkish, unsure Jared—he was certain it was just the opposite. This was not enticement but embarrassment at putting them both in such an awkward situation. 

Jensen didn’t know how to answer in a way that didn’t exacerbate the problem. “This is no different than with your brother,” he said at last, casting silent apologies to the Two for such a blatant lie. “I would swim, if you—“ he almost said ‘desire,’ but managed to choke the word back, “—wish to.” 

He deliberately twisted to put pressure on his ribs and the jolt of pain helped him control himself enough to will any evidence of arousal away, at least long enough for him to slip into the steaming waters. Jared had already hurried in, the mist from the churning water dewing his skin and jewelling his hair.

Jensen was distracted momentarily by the sensation of the waters enfolding him as he waded deeper, legs then belly then chest. He sighed with unexpected pleasure, accustomed to having to brace himself against the sharp chill of swimming in a pond or river. The water here was soothingly warm—but not scalding hot like a tub filled from a fire-heated kettle—and he felt every muscle unwind and relax as he moved farther into the center of the pool, his feet barely brushing the soft sands beneath him. 

He paddled over to where Jared lingered. But Jared immediately moved away, into shallower water by the pool’s far edge to stand hip-deep near the wall. 

_He does not want you, fool,_ Jensen warned himself. 

He deliberately looked away, so as not to torture himself with thoughts on the sheen of Jared’s skin or the slope where his spine curved toward his buttocks. He followed Jared’s gaze instead, to see that the back wall of the cavern was carved all over at shoulder height and down beneath the waterline with words. So many words. He swam closer, trying to make out what they said. Prayers to the Twins—for luck and prosperity and fertility and safety—or simple sayings. Tiny pictures like sigils. And names, dozens of names. Some seemed fresh, cut deep and lines sharp; others were worn down to indecipherability. He looked around and spied a thin stick of metal, pointed at one end, like a quill, that evidently swimmers used to make their markings. 

Moving slowly along the wall, Jensen found the ones drawn by Jared’s siblings, both extensive, elaborate designs with many curls and flourishes clearly carved over years of bathing. 

“Oh, mine is still here,” Jared said, so low Jensen almost didn’t hear it over the rush of the waters. Jensen waded over and saw three small letters—J F G—set into a nook in the rock face. Precise. Unobtrusive. 

He held his hands fisted behind his back to keep himself from reaching out to trace the letters with a finger, not sure if it was allowed. And to keep himself from reaching for Jared, knowing for certain _that_ was not.

Nevertheless, the image came to Jensen’s mind unbidden: of settling back against the stone ledge, pulling Jared in, his hands curving, fitting perfectly over Jared’s slender hips. He pictured himself licking up the side of Jared’s neck to collect the droplets of water there, while Jared would reach under the water to wind his long fingers around Jensen’s cock, stroking him to full hardness. Jensen’s hands would slide up to curl into Jared’s wet hair, urging him gently down into a kiss, his mouth slicker and hotter than the water lapping around them. 

The air felt as if it had turned to soup in Jensen’s lungs, his blood throbbed with yearning. 

“Jensen?” he heard Jared say, and snapped back to the present. To reality. To the world where someone else would, if they were very fortunate, share those kind of moments with Jared here. 

Without a word, Jensen ducked under the water and swam away.

*****

 

It was almost a relief that Jared spent the entire rest of that day and into the night in the castle’s library, barely even emerging to eat. He made an exception for an hour or so as he held unofficial court in the servants’ dining hall, listening to castlefolk’s complaints and discussing with Mitch and Allison certain plans for the surrounding lands’ upkeep that had been postponed by his father’s death. But afterward, it was back to the library for him.

Jensen thought it was possible he stayed the night in the library—Jensen himself had slept ill and never heard Jared pass his door—but by daybreak Jared was up, waiting for Jensen in the courtyard. Their restocked saddlebags were packed with the addition of Jared’s new court wardrobe, and their escort prepared to go.

The speed with which they’d all assembled took Jensen by surprise and he gulped down the last of his breakfast and spiced ale. But as he hurried out to join them, Mitchell stopped him in the doorway. 

“Take care of him. Bring him back here safe.”

“I know not whether I will return in his company,” Jensen said, “but I’ll do everything in my power to see that he returns.”

Mitchell tapped Jensen’s shoulder affectionately, like an uncle or a veteran knight from the Guards’ ranks might. “You will be back. I guarantee it.”

He nodded farewell and turned to see Jared watching him from across the courtyard where he was already mounted atop Faith. The horse stamped and wrestled at Jared’s tight hand on the reins, two lazy days in the stables had plainly tried his temper.

Jensen smiled up at him as he approached, willing nothing to show in his face but optimism and support. “Tell me,” he said, as Shadow was brought around and he swung up into the saddle, “Are you nervous about going to Morgan? Or are you eager to be on the way?”

“Both,” Jared said. “The sooner I go, the sooner I can return, and legitimately.” But he said the word with a wry grin, as if it stung less now that he’d had this time to relearn the feel of home. His home. 

Jensen looked back at the crowd of servants waving goodbye. _You already rule here_ , he thought. But aloud he said, “Let us go then.” 

This part of their journey had gone almost too easily, Jensen mused. He couldn’t help but be anxious over what might await Jared ahead.

*****

 

The road leading away southwest from Saint Anthony was not a graded thing, wide enough for several carts like the Royal Highways closer to Morgan. It was a track worn over hills and through narrow passes by the hooves of hundreds of mules and ponies and the wiry, wild-coated goats that the farmers of Padalecki herded for milk. Unlike the thick-trunked forests they’d travelled through on the way to Jared’s keep, the diagonal path back to the capital wended through rock-strewn hills, making for slower time as the horses labored up and down the slopes, placing their hooves carefully.

Every evening upon halting for the night, after the camp was laid and their escort settled to dinner, Jensen would untie the wooden swords from his saddle, and he and Jared would spar. 

After a day in the saddle, Jensen knew it was a good way to stretch sore muscles, but at the same time, tired as they were, he felt guilty for subjecting Jared to it. Only the fact that Jared gave no complaint—simply walked away from campsite to find a suitable place to draw a training circle when Jensen went for the swords—gave Jensen the discipline to keep them at it. 

Which was not to say Jared was a patient student. 

The third time that night Jensen struck the sword from his hand, Jared cursed. Not something he was wont to do, from Jensen’s short knowledge of him. 

“I thought you told me once that any fool could learn swordplay?” Jared grumbled.

“Then you must be quite an uncommon fool, my lord.”

“Oh,” Jared said picking up the play-weapon again and flipping the pommel in his palm for a better grip. “Don’t you ‘my lord’ me now.” Jensen could see the improvement in his stance. 

“Again,” Jensen commanded. “Once more.” Later, with just enough light in the sky to see by, Jared finally landed a blow. He threw his sword into the air with a crow of triumph and let himself fall back into a soft tuffet of grass outside the ring.

“Well done. That was an indisputable hit,” Jensen said, grinning. “Now up, and try ten more times.”

Jared did not land another blow that night, nor in any of the times they practiced as they neared Morgan. After one particularly grueling session, Jared nearly crawled back to the fireside, panting. Jensen fetched him water.

“I think I’ll marry a warrior,” Jared said, “so I can lounge in the library at Saint Anthony and they can worry about swordwork and leading armies and the rest of this nonsense.” 

After watching him drink his fill, throat working over the long swallows, Jensen placed the bowl of pottage he held into Jared’s lap. 

“Eat up,” he said, and for the first time in days, his smile felt forced. “This is the last of road food you’ll enjoy. Tomorrow we will arrive to Morgan. See if you can find a champion there.”

*****

 

Morgan was the largest city in the kingdom by far, a vast sprawling concentration of humanity—commoners and nobles, Brothers and Sisters, knights and tradespeople and whores and pickpockets—all cheek-to-jowl in the over-built, winding streets that led up to the huge iron-grey hulk of the palace keep.

Jensen’s party entered the palace through an arch beneath two great conical towers, passing under them into an immense courtyard with an accumulation and interconnection of what were initially separate buildings. It was a confusion of jutting wings and architectural styles, with peaks and turrets where the original builders had probably intended nothing more than rooftops. It was familiar to Jensen, but one glimpse of the amazement on Jared’s face made him reconsider how wondrously grand and daunting it truly was.

Jensen realized there must have been lookouts stationed on the road into town, because he spotted Lord Lehne striding across the courtyard to meet them before their horses even came to a halt in front of the stables. Lehne’s daughter, Nicole, trailed along behind him, her long skirts preventing her from keeping up with his quick pace. 

Jensen had always been amused by Lady Nicole for her caustic wit and a tendency to stir up trouble between members of the court for her own entertainment. However, now that he considered her as a partner for Jared, these traits morphed into drawbacks in Jensen’s mind. Though she might be vexing at times, however, she was also loyal to her house, and that would be something Jared would value. 

“My Lord Padalecki,” Lehne called to Jared, walking right past Jensen without a glance. “Welcome to Morgan Castle. I am Frederick of Lehne, one of your father’s—gods grant him peace—closest friends. I’m sure he mentioned me to you, yes? And was your journey an easy one? Let me introduce my daughter to you, for she has been very eager to meet you. You two are related through my wife’s parents, you know.”

Jared shot a glance at Jensen over Lehne, looking suddenly just as shy and ill-at-ease as he’d been the day of their first meeting. Jensen responded with a noncommittal tilt of his head. Jared chose to sling himself out of the saddle, exchanging a few pleasant words with the obsequious fool and only hesitating a second before executing an awkward bow over Nicole’s hand.

It was painful to watch, but Jensen had to be honest. This would not be the worst family for Jared to ally himself with. Lehne had gold aplenty, did as the King asked, and made as few enemies as possible. Jensen was not even sure why he was in such a hurry to be first in line to snap Jared up, but he held his tongue, ignoring the snub to himself. He turned Shadow to direct the disposition of guard and gear, busying himself as long as he could before dismounting and standing a few feet distant from the trio.

Before he decided whether and how to liberate Jared, rescue came in the form of Lady Divine. The plump, deceptively sweet-faced Chamberlain swooped in, swiftly tucking one of her arms into Jared’s, the other into Jensen’s. She drew them away with a perfunctory “m’lord, m’lady” and, before the Lehnes could say a word in protest, off they went.

Jensen looked down at Loretta as they wove their way through the crowd into the keep. “We owe you thanks, I believe. Unless you are stealing my Ward away to court him yourself?” Jensen teased. 

“No, child,” she laughed. “And don’t be disrespectful. I’ve been tasked with guiding young Jared around Morgan Castle. You’re just joining us because I like you too much to leave you behind.”

“Ah, she likes me,” he said over her head to Jared. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” 

Without breaking stride, Loretta elbowed Jensen in the side—hard enough to alert him that his ribs were no longer quite so sore—and he realized that while joking was well and good, he needed to resuscitate his court manners now that he was back in Morgan. “Jared, this is Loretta, His Majesty’s Chamberlain and Lady Divine. She is one of the seneschals of the castle proper. My lady, as I’m sure you know, this is the future Lord Padalecki, Jared.”

“My pleasure, Lady Divine,” Jared said and, despite their quick pace, executed a bow twice as smooth as the one he’d given Nicole.

“Indeed,” she smiled, and glanced slyly back at Jensen. “Perhaps I should rethink the courting after all.”

They all laughed at that, and not a word was hinted about illegitimacy or the rush to marriage. Jensen could not have asked for a more auspicious start to Jared’s stay at the palace.

The Chamberlain took them through the corridors of the main keep, showing Jared the open courts with elaborate manicured gardens, the public galleries where groups of nobles whiled away the hours in game and song. They walked under the huge vaulted arches in the great Hearth Hall—three times the size of the hall at Saint Anthony—where all the court gathered in the evenings to dine and make merry. Then up a flight of wide stone stairs they went, into the North Tower, toward Jared’s assigned rooms. On the way, they passed the secluded Room of Shelves where ancient books were kept, dim and musty. 

Loretta would have passed right by, but Jared caught one glance and begged to stop for a moment. Jensen tried to recall if he’d ever been inside, but he could not remember a time. He let Jared and Loretta precede him through the low archway, and the moment Jensen stepped inside the room, he saw it was nothing like Jared’s light-filled library in Padalecki.

Here, most of the shelving was disordered, hodge-podge tumbles and stacks of spines. Some in calf, morocco, or binders’ cloth, some flashing with gilt, a few with paper labels so old and yellowed that they looked like dead leaves. There were scrolls and tablets, and the entire room smelled of glue and old leather and mold. 

Jared turned to Loretta excitedly. “Who is responsible for these books, my lady?” 

“No one that I know of,” she said, looking around with distaste. “Feel free to make use of anything you like. It’s as muddled as a madman’s brain, I’m afraid.” She pointed back out into the hall. “But first let’s get you settled into your rooms, and I will summon attendants to help you prepare for dinner.”

“But afterward, I can return here?” Jared beseeched. 

“Certainly?” she replied, casting Jensen a baffled look. 

“Don’t mind Jared,” he told her. “He is book-mad already. He and the madman’s brain are quite suited.”

Jensen saw a look of determination glint in Jared’s eye. “Yes, we are.”

*****

 

Jared made his formal introduction to the Court that night. And while Lehne may have been the first noble to importune him, he was certainly not the last. The presumptive brides and grooms came flocking to Jared as he made his way to the head table.

The King was in attendance—the first time since his near-mortal injuries—and the court was particularly festive in response. The air in the hall was summer thick and over-warm, the light from the wall sconces emphasizing the faint glisten of sweat that dotted the diners’ temples and brows. Jensen was seated, as was his usual place, at one of the lower tables among the other unmarried courtiers and attendants. Sometimes he ate in the back with the King’s Guard, but tonight he wanted to sit as close as possible to the head of the room, his eyes glued to the scene up on the dais. 

Jared was seated at the Queen’s right hand, and the swarm of hangers-on clustering around him nearly matched the one around Princess Alona on her father’s other side. Jensen had hardly recognized him at first, so different he looked in his formal dress: silks and brocade in jewel-toned blues and green the colors of the deep sea at midday, silver-limned and fitted to flatter his strong, lithe body. It was no wonder he attracted such admiration.

Trumpets gave forth a great blast, sounding the arrival of the first course into the hall, breads crafted in fantastic shapes of ships and castles and a pastry stag that bled claret wine when the gilt arrow was plucked from its side.

Jensen saw Lady Genevieve, of the house of Pellegrino, slender and young, her black hair crowned in opals, approach Jared with a gold-encrusted goblet, taking a sip herself before handing it over. It was a pretty way to assure against poison, and also for the maid to show herself off, her tongue darting out to lick the wine from her lips. Jared’s eyes followed the movement. Jensen’s stayed on him.

He harkened back to Jared’s tentative drink at their first campfire together, and felt a sore ache in his chest as he watched Jared drink easily, liberally of Genevieve’s wine.

Just then a blue-clad courtier swayed into Jensen’s space at the table, propping her chin on his shoulder as if an old friend or lover. But he didn’t recognize her. He thought perhaps she was one of the Cohen clan. He knew Matthew well, but he never learned to tell his cousins apart. 

“Is that the Padalecki heir?” she whispered into his ear. “You brought him here, didn’t you, Sir Jensen?” She squeezed onto the bench beside him. 

“I did, Lady—?“ 

“Lauren.” she grinned, unabashed. 

Jensen took a sip of his own wine, waiting to see what Lauren wanted.

She gaily stole the cup from his hands and drank, eyeing him over the lip. If she was targeting him for seduction, Jensen thought, her aim was sadly off. 

“I’ve heard,” she leaned in with a murmur, “that he must marry to inherit.”

“That’s true,” Jensen said mildly.

“Is it just because he’s a bastard?” she said, craning her neck to gawk at the high table, where two of Lady Connell’s kin—Lord Mark of Sheppard and a young blond knight by name of Eric—were vying for Jared’s attention. “I’ve never met a bastard before.”

That ended all conversation with Lauren, as Jensen pointedly turned his back to her to make small-talk with the shallow young gallant on his right. He was sure that similar words were being spoken all around the Hall tonight, but that didn’t mean he would suffer to hear them himself.

More food arrived with pomp and glitter, a procession wending endlessly among the tables. It took four attendants each to carry the platters of giant roasts— whole roe-deer, beef and pig, lamb and kid goat. Behind came gilt-plate dishes containing swans, peacocks and pheasants readorned with their feathers, whole sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar and covered with powdered ginger, intricate meat pies and colored jellies and plums stewed in rose-water and more, all unloaded onto cloths of pure linen already stained with the carelessness of nobility. 

Lauren moved away, bored by Jensen’s lack of attention, and someone more familiar took her place. 

“Whitfield,” Jensen said in greeting, his eyes darting up to the dais again, seeing Alaina, once a knight in the King’s Guard herself and now Countess of Huffman, plucking a sweet in the shape of a flower that decorated a platter and feeding it between Jared’s lips with her fingers. Everyone was getting bolder as the feasting wore on. “How are you, my friend?” 

There was a smile in Sir Charles’ voice, more genuine than most in the hall. “Quite well, and better for finding you back at court.” 

Charles put his hand on Jensen’s leg. Jensen shifted slightly away, hardly enough to notice, just enough to make his point. “I’m afraid I’m somewhat—preoccupied at the moment.”

“Ahh. I’d heard you’d been given the role of Warden. I didn’t realize—“ Charles trailed off. Jensen cursed himself for letting anything show on his face. He knew better, was subtler than this. Or he had been, until he met Jared. 

Charles continued, more gently, “He’ll be married by mid-summer, yes?” 

Knife to the gut, salt in the wound, the question pierced him. And damned if that wasn’t Charles, needling right down to the hard core of the matter. 

“Yes,” Jensen replied tersely.

“Ahh,” Charles breathed again. Jensen met his dark, knowing gaze. It would be smarter, Jensen told himself, to go with Charles tonight, lose himself in the casual familiarity of his body. But no. Even the mere thought felt absurdly like infidelity.

Charles silently refilled Jensen’s cup from the jug on the table, and Jensen drank deeply.

*****

 

Hours later, after the meal was finally finished and as servants were clearing the tables away, Jared sought Jensen out.

Jensen scrutinized his Ward for signs that all the wine he’d been drinking was going to his head, but Jared seemed fine, clear-eyed and steady. Jensen almost made a snide remark about the parade of marriage candidates throwing themselves at Jared, and how welcome Jared seemed to make them, but reined his jealousy in. This was what they were here for after all. Jensen should— _he must_ —want it just so. 

Instead he asked Jared, “Will you dance?” 

He tilted his head to indicate the troupe of musicians in the corner—several lutes and a drum, psaltery and bombard and pipes—just as they started to play. The first notes bounced and rollicked, and many of the younger courtiers made an undignified rush into the space where the tables had been moved away and that now served as a dance floor, their hands clasping and feet skipping time.

“I don’t know how,” Jared admitted. “Will you?” 

“No, I’m too old for prancing around.” 

Jared raised an eyebrow and nodded toward Sheppard, eagerly stepping out with a young blonde half his age. 

Jensen snorted, “That’s proof, not counter,” but his sour mood started to ease somewhat. 

That was, until Lady Genevieve and her cousin Katherine came to drag Jared, awkwardly protesting but not refusing, out into the set. 

Jensen had never been much for dancing, so the fact that he stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, would not be particularly noteworthy. And him watching Jared as he danced would give no fodder to would-be gossips, either. Strange though it may seem to some at Court, Jared _was_ his Ward and Jensen had legitimate interest in getting him paired off. 

The Pellegrino girls patiently taught Jared the basic figures and steps, and Jensen had to admit to being slightly charmed in spite of himself at Jared’s progress from stumbling about like a blind newborn colt to, if not skill, at least competence. The same grace and quick-study Jared brought to his sparring lessons with Jensen seemed to serve him well on the dance floor. 

Other dancers in the patterns stared, several refused to take hands with Jared in passing. But outright slurs seemed to be confined to behind Jared’s back, and Jensen was relieved that most were pretending to be too jaded to gawk at the extraordinary, new-minted noble in their midst.

Eventually, Sheppard stepped in for a turn with Jared, and then Sir Eric, and even Lady Alaina, who typically felt court dances beneath her dignity. 

Each time after a change of partners, Jared would seek out Jensen where he stood, asking him again to dance. But Jensen was not such a fool as to agree, in public no less, to touch Jared’s hand, his hip, to press close when the patterns called for it. 

“For the last time, I’m not dancing.”

“Good,” Jared replied brightly. “If that’s your last refusal, you’ll have to say yes when next I ask.”

But before Jared could cajole him more, Lord Heyerdahl appeared, drawn up before the two of them with a fierce scowl on his face. His family’s title was an old one but their small holdings were squeezed between Padalecki and Pellegrino, the poorest and most poorly-managed of the three. He had no eligible heir to dangle before Jared. And it appeared that he wanted none.

“You have no right to consort among the gentlefolk of this court.” He sneered at Jared. “Filthy bastard. Whoreson.” Heyerdahl said it with a thick hiss like it was something dragged through mud. 

There were gasps from surrounding courtiers who began to draw near to witness the spectacle. Many had whispered the same words behind their hands this night, but none had gone so far as to fling it in Jared’s face.

Jensen surged forward, ready to plant his fist across the man’s jaw, lord or no. Jared gripped his arm to hold him back. Jensen could feel him tremble slightly, but no one else could see anything but unperturbed calm in his visage. 

“My lord Heyerdahl ,” Jared replied evenly, but making it sound like as foul an epithet as the one thrown at him. “I have no quarrel with you. And I know Their Majesties would not want to see a brawl in their feasting hall tonight. 

“And no one wants to see _you_ here,” the man spat back. “Your father was wise to hide his shame away with the holy men. And yet you dare crawl out to show your face among us?”

“For the people of Padalecki and for King Jeffrey, I would dare much more than that.” 

It almost made Jensen double take, the steel in Jared’s voice. 

He moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his Ward. Just as a safeguard, since he was no longer threatening violence. At least, not for the moment. Jensen couldn’t say what he might do if Heyerdahl continued to abuse Jared before the Court, just when it had appeared Jared’s presence might be accepted without too much difficulty.

Jensen was not put to the test, however. Princess Alona was pushing her way through the gathered throng and took Lord Christopher by the arm. “My lord,” she said smoothly, acknowledging the bows of the group with a brief nod of the head, “I fear our feast is not the best place for a discussion of this delicate nature. My father is weary and preparing to retire, perhaps you would join me in wishing him good night, and we can talk more of this in private?”

She phrased it as a question, but was already leading Heyerdahl away, not sparing a glance over her shoulder at Jared, who continued to hold himself tall and motionless at Jensen’s side.

At last, as the curious onlookers began to drift away, Jared let himself sink back against the wall. 

“Are you alright?” Jensen asked. 

“I suppose that was to be expected.” Jared turned to give him a small smile, but Jensen could see the strain lingering in the corners of his eyes. 

“Perhaps,” Jensen said. Lauren’s impertinent comments had come as no surprise, but he kicked himself for ignoring the likelihood of more violent objections from certain quarters. Some, like Heyerdahl, would hate Jared simply for what he was. But others would see Jared’s advancement as their loss. And they could be dangerous. 

Clearly, the royal family was going to stand by Jared and his claims to Padalecki. But Jensen also reminded himself that ‘warden’ fundamentally meant ‘protector.’

“I believe,” Jared said, as several of his suitors advanced on them once more, “that it would be best to resolve this question of marriage quickly.”

“Perhaps,” Jensen said again, having no better reply.

*****

 

The next morning Jensen woke to full sun shining through the slit window of his tiny cell. No featherbeds for such as he here at Morgan. He counted himself lucky to have a room of his own. As had clearly become a habit, before his eyes were barely open, his first thought was to find Jared. He stretched, used the pot, dressed, and set off.

He checked initially in Jared’s rooms, where there were none but a pair of castle servants, strewing fresh rushes on the floor and cleaning ashes from the hearth. Next, he wandered to the main hall to see if Jared was breaking fast, but Jensen could not find him among the few clusters of early risers. Unlike when they were staying on Padalecki estates, no one was particularly keeping track of one young courtier, infamous or not, and there were none to tell him Jared’s direction. 

Then it hit him. Of course he knew where Jared must be.

Jensen found himself leaning against the doorway into the Room of Shelves, taking in the sight of Jared, a dozen books fanned out around him, the writing on the pages small and strange, overwritten and interlined by many careful hands, many of those hands likely dust by now.

“Will there ever be a time I don’t find you with your head in a book?” 

“Doubtful,” Jared replied, gifting him with a wide grin of welcome that made Jensen’s heart swell like a boat cresting a wave. “And good morn to you, too.”

Jensen was glad to see Jared’s spirits recovered after the disturbance of the night before.

Jared held up a folded piece of parchment with his seal set upon it. “Do you know where I can find our company? I mean—that is, the guard who brought us from Tall Timber? I have need of a messenger.”

Jensen’s curiosity was piqued, and he wanted to ask to what purpose. But if Jared didn’t offer it up unasked, it felt amiss to interrogate him about it. Jensen already felt a gap beginning to widen between them, Jared getting pulled into the orbit of the higher echelons of the court, Jensen left circling on the periphery where he belonged. 

And yet. He couldn’t help himself. 

“Sending notes to secret admirers already?” He prayed it came out as purely lighthearted teasing. 

Jared answered with a snort of derision. “Hardly.” His lips flattened together in a thin, frustrated line. “I found I dare not give any of them the slightest encouragement until I am ready to speak with the Queen in earnest. I knew but—but I did not truly understand that I would be treating with such powerful forces. Lehne, Huffman, Pellegrino. Any of them might feel slighted once this is over and they are not the ones chosen.”

“I suppose it is difficult,” Jensen said, “on the evidence of first acquaintance to start making your decision. Unless you do have some sense already?” By gods, what had come over him? If he wanted to ask Jared if he’s attracted to the suitors he’d met, he should just do it. This roundabout fishing was embarrassing.

Jared ducked his head, looking down at the book in front of him, fiddling with the pages. “I—I’m hoping for a bit more time.” His gaze cut over to the sealed message where he’d set it at his left hand, and then he glanced up at Jensen through a lock of his long hair that fell over his face. “How long do you think I have before I will be pressed to answer?”

“Who knows? The Court is abuzz with the Princess’s own courtship and the King’s health. Normally you and your affairs would be given much more scrutiny, but I’d say for now you have some breathing room. But,” he cautioned, “remember, too, men like Heyerdahl.”

Jared nodded and slumped back in his chair, then reached his arms over his head to arch and stretch his back, fingers extended toward the far wall. The posture emphasized his size—which Jensen sometimes forgot, always trying to convince himself to think of Jared as a youth—that broad chest and his big hands, those long, long legs. He felt his pulse skip and forced his mind to mundane things, like wondering where Allison had found a cobbler at short notice with boots to fit Jared’s feet.

“There’s no point in delay, even if you are being circumspect,” Jensen said, recalling himself to duty. “The more you know, the easier you can make your choice. I suggest we go out into the Great Hall right now and spend more time with your cousins.”

Jared made a face.

Jensen raised his eyebrows. 

“What if instead,” Jared countered, “we went to the courtyard to practice swordwork?”

*****

 

In the days that followed, Jared had a more difficult time avoiding the courtship competition. Still, Jensen noticed that he rarely allowed himself to be separated from the crowd, beckoning to Eric to join them in the gardens if Katherine invited him to walk there together, assembling a party as escort when Alaina suggested he ride out with her along the riverfront. It helped that the rivals appeared to be as jealous of Jared’s person as he could wish, happily thwarting each other’s attempts at taking the lead in the race for his hand.

It seemed to Jensen that Jared might be enjoying the game of pitting them against each other more than the company of any one. And if the sight of Genevieve’s tiny hand in Jared’s as they danced, or Sheppard’s arm around his waist as he tried to lure him into a darkened corner, made Jensen’s heart clench like a fist of ice, that was no one’s business but his own.

The entire court was up early one morning after Alona called for companions to join her on a Royal Hunt. A great boar had been sighted in the woods, the Princess had announced at dinner, and she’d pledged her favor at the next tournament to whomever could bring it down. 

“Unless I take the beast myself,” she’d announced, twirling her small eating knife between her fingers for show. The suitors around her had laughed aloud, thinking it a jest. However, when word passed down the tables of what she’d said, Jensen just smiled to himself. He’d thought she might have a better chance if wild boars didn’t outweigh her by ten stone or more, but he wouldn’t advise counting her out. 

In the dimness of the stable, he saddled Shadow himself, as the grooms were busy with dozens of other mounts. He didn’t need much, didn’t plan on actually participating in the hunt, so Jensen simply secured some basic trappings, then led Shadow out into the courtyard throng and swung up into the saddle. It was unusual to see so many courtiers in the rosy light of dawn, and Jensen wondered how many of them had simply stayed awake all night to continue their revelries here. 

There was a festive mood, with the dogs yelping excitedly, straining at their leashes. Lesser servants wandered among the milling riders, distributing mugs of steaming ale and soft leather skins of mulled cider. Huntsmen were moving through the crowd, too, handing out long boar spears to impatient hunters. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” 

Faith pulled up beside Shadow, and he saw Jared holding up a spear. It had a crossbar affixed about a foot from the head. 

“Well, if a boar turns and attacks, as they are wont, stick the pointy end toward it. You’ll be grateful for the weapon,” Jensen let his smile turn slightly wicked, “and for the stopper that keeps it from running all the way up the shaft to get you.”

Jared looked at the spear doubtfully, then back at Jensen. “Perhaps I’ll skip the hunt after all.”

“Or perhaps you’ll be the prey instead,” Jensen said, nodding behind Jared to where Sheppard and the younger Lehne converged upon them through the crowd from different directions. 

“Ride with us?” Jared begged Jensen with a sigh of resignation.

“We’ll see.” He ought to stay out of the way, encourage Jared to pay full attention to his prospective partners. He shouldn’t keep letting Jared use him as a shield. 

Then again, Jensen thought about how fun it would be to actually hunt with Jared. Not this ridiculous social pageant, but just the two of them out alone with hawks or hounds, chasing down dinner on a cold autumn afternoon. They would debate various tracking techniques, probably ones Jared read about in some olden manual. Jared would laugh at Jensen when they lost their way because Jensen was paying too much attention to how the light caught in the wispy tips of Jared’s hair and…

Jensen snapped out of his reverie as the reconnaissance hunters hallooed back to the main body that the boar had been scented. Horses jostled and bumped, harness jangled, as the more enthusiastic riders leapt to the call. Once the rest of the company sorted itself out and got on the move, Jensen lagged back, letting Jared’s suitors jockey for position near him. 

That earned Jensen a glare, but he let it bounce off. This was necessary. This was wise.

Jensen rode along by himself for a few minutes, but then someone trotted up beside him. It was Lord Pellegrino himself. They had never formally met, and Jensen was taken aback at his unexpected approach. Also, there was little in the world that Jensen feared, but something about this man made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“He’d be happier with me,” Pellegrino said in measured tones after a moment’s silence, as if continuing a conversation mid-thread, as if discussing something of no more moment than the fitness of the King’s hounds. “I understand him. I remember what it was like, finding my way after I left the Brotherhood.”

 _After they kicked you out, I believe you mean,_ Jensen thought. No one was clear on just what transgression had led Lord Mark to be ushered out of the Order in disgrace years before. But Jensen could only imagine it was something dreadful, given what he considered the overly-forgiving nature of most of the Church hierarchy. Furthermore, based on Mark’s subsequent ruthless and rapid ascension to power within Pellegrino after leaving the Brotherhood, Jensen was wary of encouraging Jared to have anything to do with him.

“I have no say over Jared’s choice in marriage partner,” Jensen said firmly. “You must appeal to him yourself.”

“And yet I would hate to step on my nieces’ toes that way,” Mark lilted. “Katherine and Genevieve have quite the competition going.” Jensen could feel Mark’s piercing gaze upon him, but he pretended to be watching the riders ahead. “Yet perhaps,” Mark continued, “Lord Jared is more interested in a husband than a wife? I understand _that_ , too. I imagine I can be of great service there.”

“I’m not one for repeating court gossip,” Jensen said, seeming to ignore Lord Mark’s remarks. “But there are rumors at Court that you have moved troops to your southern border.” 

“What if Jared chooses Huffman, my dear boy? The two together could easily move against me, once their forces are consolidated.”

“So you will attack Padalecki preemptively?” Jensen’s gut twisted. He had not travelled so far with Jared as to visit the lands that abutted Pellegrino’s. But even so, the thought of war coming to Jared’s people, of green fields burnt to black ash, was awful.

“No, of course not.” Mark laughed, but it was humorless and cold. “Particularly if Jared chooses to wed one of my nieces. Or even, if he would deny them, should he accept an offer from a loftier source.”

Jared would not get within ten feet of this man, if Jensen had any say in it.

Of course, Jared might be convinced to choose Pellegrino without seeking Jensen’s approval. He was a relatively attractive man, if that mattered to Jared. And although Lord Mark had never shown any inclination toward marriage—possibly a vestige of his days in the Brotherhood— it appeared that he might put aside that preference for the chance to snatch up the great prize of Padalecki lands. Unfortunately, he was renowned for his cunning and persuasiveness. 

Not that Jensen considered Jared to be a victim or a pushover—at least not since he’d seen the mettle beneath Jared’s initial diffidence—but once he let Pellegrino in, Jensen feared it would crush Jared’s very soul.

Jensen glanced sidelong at the man who rode so calmly next to him, like they weren’t discussing coercion and threats of invasion. Then he looked around. 

He realized he couldn’t spy Jared anywhere ahead among the hunting party. It might just be the stress of Mark’s company, but Jensen felt alarms go off in his brain.

“You’ve given me much to think upon, my lord,” Jensen murmured politely. “And now please excuse me, there’s something else I must attend.”

Jensen kicked Shadow to a canter and made his way up alongside the staggered column of men and women, none of whom seemed particularly interested in boar, but none of whom were Jared. He spotted Nicole riding in a different group now, with McKeon and Richings and some others Jensen didn’t recognize. Ahead of them was Sheppard, exchanging barbs with Huffman like two fishwives. Jensen was reluctant to ask after Jared—he didn’t want Jared’s Warden to seem like an old cow with only one calf—but it suddenly felt imperative to find him.

It was then his heart rose in his throat when he saw, off to his right, a riderless silver-white stallion stumbling now and again on his dangling reins. Jensen turned Shadow and rushed on an intercept course. As they neared, Faith came toward him, whinnying a frightened greeting. 

The horse appeared unhurt, his breath unlabored, there was no sheen on his shoulders suggesting an arduous run. Jared could not be far—but how to find him, one youth in a brown tunic, somewhere in a green forest?

Leaving Faith behind, hoping someone else would collect him, but too frantic now to pause, Jensen clapped heels to Shadow and took off. He sped through the clearing Faith had crossed, and into the thicker woods beyond. There he was slowed by the underbrush, and he started shouted Jared’s name.

When Jensen first heard a hallooing reply that wasn’t Jared’s voice, he thought it merely part of the hunting party, and welcomed the help in searching. He turned Shadow toward the sound, roweling him fiercely because his mind’s eye had begun to flash him pictures of Jared, bones broken from a fall or, worse, silently bleeding out from some horrible wound. He was indeed so immersed in this mental image that even when the riders he hoped would aid him were in sight, he didn’t at once perceive anything odd. 

However, the truth burst upon him when he saw the glitter of a lifted sword. Jensen himself had no sword or armor, for no one wore such things on a casual Court hunt. But he didn’t hesitate, automatically reaching for the long, double-edged dirk used for gutting game that was affixed to his saddlebow. He drew it forth. Then two men were upon him.

He barely warded off the first attacker’s initial stroke. But he swiftly reversed his swing and was able to catch the second full upon the sword arm, forcing him to drop the blade as his mount stumbled back.

Before Jensen could consider his next move, he heard a familiar voice cry out. It was Jared, calling his name, calling for help.

Jensen didn’t think, just acted. The sick, wet sound of blade through flesh and the thud of a man’s fall when it was jerked away were sweet music. The other rider was on him again, with a swipe that cut Jensen’s surcoat and drove into his skin. But Jensen hardly felt the blow, his whole being focused on winning through to Jared. He struck again, Shadow rearing up to harass his opponent’s mount. As the beast shied, Jensen took the man with a mortal thrust to the gut, and then he charged past without looking back.

He did not yet see Jared, but was determined to follow the line of that last call. He dug into Shadow’s sides and they leapt forward, breasting a thinned spot in a thorny hedge. Down beyond, Jensen spotted him at last. 

Two more assailants had Jared at bay, his back against a tree. 

Jared had nothing to defend himself but a thick branch, holding it two-handed before him as Jensen had taught him to when pressed on defense. Jensen saw one man’s sword flash bright and heard it scrape the length of Jared’s defense, a metallic slithering, like a steel serpent gliding across a log. 

The flanking attacker feinted toward Jared with her blade, but Jared’s branch yet held firm. The other drove forward again, missing him by a thumb’s width as he dodged away, the attacker’s sword burying itself in the trunk of the tree behind. Jared swung at him, catching him on the side of the head, while the second circled to get a clear stroke. 

Jensen descended upon the scene like a feral hawk starving for its prey. At full gallop he swung his short blade with such force it nearly decapitated the first attacker, a great gout of blood spurting forth in a fountain from the wound in her neck. But instead of whipping past and leaving Jared defenseless, Jensen found himself leaping from Shadow’s saddle to sink his dirk’s sharp point deep in the other man’s chest.

Jensen shoved the body to the ground and caught Jared to him, gasping between rage and fear. 

“Let me go,” Jared cried, struggling.

“Jared, you’re safe. No one will harm you now.” He had Jared in a grip so tight there would surely be bruises on his arms. “By the Two, when I find out who ordered this, I will slay them with bare hands if need be.”

“No, no, it’s not me, it’s you,” Jared exclaimed, hands on Jensen’s face. “You’re covered in blood! Where are you hurt?”

“Nowhere, it’s nothing.” Jensen seemed to remember taking a hit, but it didn’t matter now. Didn’t matter as long as Jared was alive and unharmed.

And then Jared kissed him.

Jensen was already on edge from adrenaline still arrowing through him, his terror for Jared, the pain that was beginning to bear down on him. But overriding it all when Jared touched him came a wave of unthinking passion. He tightened his grip even more and his mouth responded to Jared’s, hard and dry at first with the thirst of battle, then softening as his blood answered to this new demand and left the fighting muscles to course through groin and lips. 

He let go of Jared just long enough to throw off his foul and blood-soaked gloves and then clasped him again, hard against his chest. 

Jared kept kissing him frantically, clumsily, driving Jensen back until he collided with the tree trunk behind him. Jensen responded by pressing his mouth tighter against Jared’s until it was right on the edge of pain. He felt dizzy with the taste of Jared, heady from need. His fingers balled in the back of Jared’s tunic, searching for entry, desperate for the feel of skin. 

Jensen rucked up the fabric keeping him from Jared and managed to slide under his clothes to discover soft skin. Jensen’s hands were cold—a mix of fear, combat, desire—and Jared burned to his touch, a heat that melted into him where his hands splayed across Jared’s lower back. Jared inched closer, spreading his legs, and Jensen’s thigh automatically shoved between them, snugging up against Jared’s balls and the hard line of his cock. To Jensen it felt like they were two pieces designed to be one, finally locking together.

Jared’s hair was splayed out every which way, sticking to his temples with sweat that shone in the dappled sunlight streaking through the leaves overhead. Sweat that Jensen wanted to lick, so he did. Licked and bit, under his ear and down the line of Jared’s jaw. He thought about leaving his mark right here on Jared’s neck, but had just enough wit left to resist, sinking lower instead to push his tongue hard against the fluttering pulse in Jared’s throat. 

With every scrape of teeth and long, wet suck, Jared writhed and let loose some kind of sound, something surprised and hitched, sweet and desperate. Each noise he made lashed at Jensen, wound him tighter, his lust tearing him apart, making him grind his thigh up into Jared just to hear him gasp once more at the pressure.

Jensen had often dreamed of how he would touch Jared, had he been allowed. But this wasn’t careful or slow or tender, or anything he’d imagined.

Jared’s hands were pawing at him now, clawing at him, struggling at the tie of Jensen’s leather breeches. There was a rough gritty drag against Jensen’s aching cock as it was freed of confinement, and then a jag of bliss as Jared wrapped it in the soft, hot skin of his palm. 

Jensen was blind with it, with the heat rolling inside of him, half mad with a throbbing blaze like his guts had turned to flames and they were burning up inside him every time he pushed up into Jared’s too-loose grip or when Jared rutted down onto his leg. He was consumed, completed, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this, like this was the reason he had been made. 

He dug both hands into the meat of Jared’s ass and lifted, shifting him over, closer so that his cock was aligned with Jensen’s, his hand trapped between them. Through the cloth of Jared’s chausses, Jensen could feel him, long and hard and ready. Words, words he had no right to say bubbled up in the back of Jensen’s throat. But he swallowed them down, silencing himself by devouring Jared’s mouth, nipping and kissing hungrily at it before diving inside, timing the thrusts of his tongue with the roll of his hips as the two of them found a rhythm and shoved against each other, over and over. 

Suddenly he felt the flex of the muscles in Jared’s ass stop, seize, clench. Saw Jared’s eyes squeeze shut, his mouth sling open, his head tipping back as his body arched helplessly into Jensen’s. Jared's first pleasure from another's touch.

And when Jensen felt the pulse of fluid heat bleeding through the front of Jared’s clothes, his own orgasm struck him like lightning, searing him to cinders.

Uncontrollably, he hunched over, biting into Jared’s shoulder to stop the shout that welled up in him. His balls tightened and his cock leapt and he spilled his seed in long, ragged surges into Jared’s hand, shockwaves of pleasure shivering out from that point of contact over his entire body.

Jensen’s grip fell away and Jared collapsed into him, the tree the only thing left supporting them both. Their chests heaved in time against each other as they panted, fighting for breath. Jensen’s legs trembled and nearly gave out beneath him.

“Beloved, beloved,” he heard Jared murmur, ”sit down. My gods, you are hurt.”

Jensen opened his eyes to the sight of Jared’s anxious face, his ruined, red-bitten lips. A sense of terrible trespass filled him with dread. 

“What have I done?” he said faintly.

“Jensen—“ 

He struggled to keep his feet, the pain in his side nothing to the sickness in his heart. The thick, cloying evidence of his passion stained Jared’s clothes, and the smell of blood made bile rise in Jensen’s throat. He had just taken advantage of Jared’s fear, violated Jared’s trust. He’d tossed his duty aside to give in to his illicit lust, turned Jared’s first experience with sex into an act of haste and violence. 

Jensen felt as if he’d done Jared as much wrong as the villains who’d tried to murder him. 

He wiped a hand across his mouth, as if he could wipe away the taste of his offense. He saw Jared glance over to where the dead bodies of his attackers lay cooling in the open air. How unhinged he was to lay hands upon Jared, here of all places.

“Come away from this abattoir,” Jensen said brusquely, his voice raw. “We should have sought protection long ago, in case there are more to set upon us.”

He ignored Jared’s shocked, hurt look at the cold tone and quickly stepped away, fumbling to do up his breeches and calling Shadow to them from where he’d settled nearby. He pressed a hand to the throbbing wound on his side in an attempt to stave off new bleeding as he mounted. He had to get Jared someplace safe.

But there was no need for them to flee, as, just then, help arrived.

Into the glade where they stood stormed several men on horseback. Brothers in grey—Kurt and Richard and Demore—and several courtiers followed, too. Nicole and Eric were among the group, sliding from their mounts to fuss over Jared, who looked lost and exhausted. They explained someone had seen Jensen’s encounter with Faith and rounded up a search party. 

Jensen thanked the Twins above none had come upon them moments earlier. He cursed himself for his weakness and betrayal. For accepting Jared’s panicked kiss and then turning it against him, using him like some three-coin trull in the night. 

The sound of Jared’s ‘beloved’ echoed forebodingly in Jensen’s ears. No good could come of this.

“Oh gods, what have I done?” he muttered again.

But Jared must’ve heard him, because he stalked away from where Nicole was dabbing her kerchief at a bruise on his knuckles to where Jensen leaned against Shadow. 

“No,” Jared whispered, furious and low so the others couldn’t hear. “You are not allowed to blame yourself for this. If you must blame someone, blame me.” 

“The Crown put you in my charge, under my protection!” Jensen hissed.

“And you have protected me,” Jared insisted, gesturing to the pair of bodies felled in the glade like slaughtered meat.

Jensen looked away, away from Jared’s fierce face, his beautiful body, out through the bramble of trees toward the milling mounts of even more members of the hunting party come to find them. 

“I deeply regret the insult I offered you here this morn, my lord,” he said at last. And let that stand as his only response.

*****

 

Ashamed and alarmed at his transgression, Jensen was determined to avoid Jared the next day, and for as long as necessary until the announcement of his betrothal. Avoiding him turned out to be relatively easy, though, because Jared didn’t leave the Room of Shelves. Not to eat nor ride out nor to attend the evening feasting.

Jensen knew he stayed in the library because of the coming and going of several brethren, as well as a few members of the Sisterhood that Jensen recognized—Erica, Amanda, and others.

Jensen itched to stop one of them and ask what Jared was doing, argued with himself that it was his duty to supervise and safeguard Jared’s activities, even unto these last days of formal Wardenship. But the louder voice rebuked that he’d already failed that duty. Better to remove himself from Jared’s sphere completely than to chance any further offense.

This resolution was tested sorely that night when he heard the door of his room creak open. 

“Jensen?” Jared’s voice drifted to him through the dark.

Only with the mightiest effort did Jensen hold every muscle still, feigning sleep.

He heard the rustle of steps, of Jared sinking to the floor by the side of Jensen’s bed. Just as he had on a night that felt so long ago, it might have been a different lifetime. 

Jensen had no idea how long they sat there in the dark, listening to each other breathe. But even when Jared whispered, “Please. I need to talk to you,” in a voice no louder than a sigh, Jensen did not answer. If he did not resist Jared now, there’s no telling what he might do. Jared needed more than he could give. Jared deserved better. 

Jared would have better, if Jensen could just be strong. 

It felt as if his bones were being ground to powder under the strain of denial. But finally Jared stood. Jensen could feel his gaze burning into the solid wall of Jensen’s back. 

Then the door opened once more, and Jensen was alone again.

The next day Jensen threw himself into the work of discovering who was behind the attack on Jared during the hunt, and it quickly came to light that they were Heyerdahl’s own retainers. He hadn’t even bothered using surrogates, so sure he’d been that Jared would be easily dispatched. 

So at least there was one small sliver of good to come of that debacle, as Lord Christopher skulked out of Morgan and back to his own estates in shame. Meanwhile, the Court seemed to become more supportive of Jared and the prospect of his odd ascendance as the head of Padalecki. The shocked whispers of “bastard” fell silent, few people continued to patently shun him or make loud, unfavorable comparisons of Jared with his brother and sister. 

But the resolution of the issue left Jensen at loose ends. It wasn’t until the third day of him wandering the palace and ignoring the magnet-pull of the library that Jensen spied Princess Alona dashing by herself across the bailey, her hands bunched in the folds of her heavily-embroidered skirts to lift them out of the way. 

“Sir Jensen,” she called once she was close enough to be heard. She rushed toward him so swiftly, he had to jerk up from his courtly bow to catch her by the shoulders in time to stop her from plowing into him.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” 

She nodded and gasped for breath. “Follow me. I think there’s something going on you’ll want to see.”

“Jared?” 

“Your Ward has requested a private audience with my mother.”

She led him on fast feet to her own royal chambers on the third level, where Jensen was assuredly not permitted to be. In fact, Jensen had never been so high up in the keep, but he barely even noticed the lavish surroundings, his mind so consumed with what Jared’s actions could mean. 

He feared he knew too well: Jared must have finally chosen from among his cousins.

Alona pulled him through a barely noticeable crease in the far wall of her suite, a slit that led into a narrow little room like a jewel box, in which the walls and ceiling were covered with blue satin quilting, muffling every sound.

Jensen heard Jared’s voice mid-speech, clipped and incensed, coming from a small, shoulder-high opening. “—not impossible. If the Sisterhood has confirmed his true lineage, then it meets the conditions you set out for marriage.”

“We did not make that rule frivolously,” Queen Samantha replied. Jensen was relieved to hear she didn’t sound as angry as Jared, but her voice was firm. “The point was not so you could marry the first handsome courtier that caught your fancy.” He heard Jared make an angry sound of denial, but the Queen cut off a further tirade. “This kingdom is a boiling pot with only the good will people have for Jeffery and myself as the lid to keep it from spilling over. It’s less noticeable here in Morgan, concealed behind formal manners and frivolous revelry, but there is a very real danger of civil war, with you at the center.”

“Then send me back to Tall Timber!”

“It’s too late for that. You are now clearly a viable heir. No one could take over the rule of Padalecki without fear someday you would be trotted out as a leader of a rebellion.”

“I would not—“

“Listen,“ she said sharply. “None of us—not myself, not the King, not a soul in this castle—live free to choose any path we want. We are all constrained by duty, by place, by our responsibility to the people who serve us. And I am telling you now, you cannot choose Jensen as a spouse.”

Inside the little blue chamber, Jensen gasped out loud. Alona quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. When he looked at her with alarm, she merely shrugged, but with an expression that indicated she was surprised at this outlandish turn as well.

“Then choose for me,” he heard Jared demand. “If I can’t marry Jensen, I don’t care.”

“I cannot. If the King and I are seen to show favor by bestowing alliance with you on one family, the others will take umbrage. Jared. Jared. You are young, impulsive. Jensen has shown you kindness. But you must put aside your infatuation. You must make a strong alliance that can protect you while you consolidate power in your holdings.”

“Your Majesty—” Jared pled.

“There is no more to be said. You have your answer. You may leave us now, Padalecki.” She said it in a way that brooked no argument. 

There was a shuffling of papers and of feet, then silence fell. One so still even Jensen’s deliberately shallow breaths seemed to echo in his ears. Soon he began to wonder if the Queen had left, too. 

“Alona,” came her voice through the gap. “You must think me a fool not to know you are there. Come out, and bring Jensen with you.”

The Princess took him by the hand and pushed at a random panel in the wall so that it swung open, nearly dragging him behind her out of their hiding spot. They emerged into a small audience room, but before they could reach the sturdy, unornamented chair the Queen was using as a throne, Jensen sank down on one knee, head bowed. “Your Majesty, I knew nothing of this. I swear it to you.”

“I know. Rise up and let us speak of how to fix it.” Her shrewd eyes upon him softened. “Ah, that poor Jared. It is my fault, at least in part. I should have remembered that everyone falls in love with you a little bit, do they not, my beau chevalier?”

Jensen could feel the heat rise in his face but stood silent. She didn’t sound angry, but Jensen still felt his life, and Jared’s too, balanced on the precipice of her whim.

“Whom does he favor?” She shifted her gaze from him to her daughter. “Do either of you have a sense what his choice would be if pressed?”

“No,” Alona said. “Although we are cordial enough, I am not in his confidence.”

“Truly, I do not know either,” Jensen replied. “He has stubbornly resisted showing any preference, or indeed anything but the mildest courtesy to any of the candidates.”

The Queen sat back with a huff. “I’ve seen it myself. Rarely is a newcomer to this Court so immune to its… enticements. I guess those years at the monastery made a proper monk of him.”

Jensen struggled not to let any hint of his memory of Jared in the woods show in his expression. The urgent kisses. The force of his body pressing Jensen into the bark of the tree. His hand between Jensen’s legs. None of it monkish in the least. 

“I will give him until the Solstice Celebration,” she announced. “Twelve days from now. The benefit to us of keeping these adversaries all distracted and on tenterhooks is waning. Instead we’re running the risk that further uncertainty will cause someone to… act rashly.”

Jensen cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should depart from Morgan for the nonce, Your Majesty. I could—” 

“No. We need you here,” the Queen said. “I’m sorry. I know this must be discomfiting for you. But we may have reason to call upon you as Warden, as a neutral party, should tempers begin to run high. Huffman and Sheppard are nearly at each other’s throats, and Lady Ruth appears unwilling to rein Mark in.” She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose tiredly. “Alona, stay. There is more we must speak of beyond the Padalecki affair, including your own betrothal. Jensen, go now. Tell Jared he has not much more than a week. And that he should come out of that twice-damned library.”

Jensen bowed his way out, and when the door shut behind him, he felt like he was taking his first real breath in an hour. Then he set his shoulders and marched off down the hall.

*****

 

He slammed the door behind him so hard that books tumbled over on the nearest ledge.

“Have you lost your mind?” he snarled at Jared.

Jared looked up at the intrusion from where he sat, head down, hands in his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his jaw was clenched and mulish. He didn’t even bother to ask how Jensen knew what had happened in the Queen’s chambers. “You’re an eligible spouse, according to the Queen’s dictate,” he retorted. “It took me much labor to dig it out, a fortnight of searching—at Saint Anthony, here, papers found in Ackles itself—but it turns out you’ve noble blood after all. The head of the Sister’s Order here in Morgan has verified what I found: that you are descended from a true son of Padalecki through one mother’s great-grandfather.”

“Yes, and probably so is one of the dogboys working down in His Majesty’s kennels!” It hurt Jensen to say it. Having learned this precious, hidden facet of his lineage, to turn around and deny it seemed wrong. But there were greater things at stake. “It matters naught.”

“It matters _all_!” Jared insisted, pounding one fist on the table, making books there jump as well. 

Jensen planted both his own palms on the table and leaned in. “No! Listen to me. Give up this foolish caprice of yours. Do not bring disaster on all you cherish. The King and Queen could easily abrogate their bargain with your father and toss you aside for another, more biddable heir. Meanwhile, I will be in prison, or perhaps my head upon a spike, for cozening you to serve my own wicked gain.”

“I do not believe you,” Jared said, but his voice was shaking now. 

Jensen _needed_ to shake him. Needed to cut deep enough to turn him aside from this course. “Their Majesties believe it. Why else do you think they are raising you up at all? They believe this is the path to peace. Would you see the kingdom torn apart? Would you see the bloody war that has beleaguered Lyon and his Empire come to the walls of Saint Anthony? See the slaughter of the children of Day and of Mills?”

“No. It could never—“

“There is talk that even forces in Hoflin and Stuart are stirring, despite the fact that they have no claim at all to your lands. So think you, what would Pellegrino not do? Or Huffman? What would they not do to get what they want?”

This time the words evidently hit home, because Jared froze in place.

“What they want,” he murmured, then spun away, repeating it almost to himself. Jensen stared at him, still thick in the heat of the argument, but Jared seemed to have turned his attention away completely. “What they want.” Jared lifted his hands and rubbed his face as if to clear it from some obscuring veil. He began to pace, practically throwing himself across the library with strides as furious as a great caged cat from a festival troupe.

Jensen waited, long minutes, as Jared sought his way clear. There was nowhere to go.

Finally, Jared stopped, turning to face him once more. “You said to me once that you didn’t believe you were meant to marry, to love someone.” Jensen saw Jared brace his feet and pull his shoulders back, as if to prepare to take a blow. “Would—could you have loved me?”

Thus it was Jensen who took the hit. He bowed his head and bit his lip against the brutal pain that twisted in his breast. But if he truly believed all that he’d just said to Jared, he must endure. 

“No more,” he growled. “No more of this. I see that I must be the one to seal off this disastrous path you insist on treading. I will tell the Queen I rescind my Wardenship.” Jared made a noise of protest, but Jensen barreled on. “I’m not at liberty to leave the court, but I ask that you do not seek me out. Although I—I led you astray in the forest, I am honor-bound to see you securely wed to a proper ally. Your honor demands it as well. You must turn your attention to your duty. You must stop letting this—this thing you imagine between us distract you.”

“I imagine it, do I?” Jared huffed, but Jensen still did not look up. “Do I have to say it first? I will. I love you. I love you, Jensen of Ackles. There is not a soul in the kingdom with such high principle, with as much true compassion and bravery and worth as you have. I love you, and I would know if you return the feeling, in truth.”

“Don’t. You must marry another.”

“ _Jensen—_ ” he heard Jared plead, “—just this one thing I must know, please. And I will not ask again.”

Perhaps it was like poison. If just Jensen spit it out, he could be free of it and begin to mend. “I answer you, and then you swear to me we will not speak of it ever again?”

“You answer,” Jared vowed, choosing his words carefully, “and I swear I shall turn all of my attentions to my cousins alone, and to my duty to the Crown and the safety of the country.”

In the end, Jensen had not the courage to lift his head and look Jared in the face. Not enough strength to keep the pain out of his eyes. But nor could he lie. 

“I do love you,” Jensen murmured, barely above a whisper, but there was no doubt Jared heard it, as still as he held himself. “In full measure. However,” his voice rose, “hear me. _Hear me._ There is naught and never will be anything between us. Now fulfill your word and forget about me.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the room. There was nothing more to be said.

*****

 

As hard as it had been for Jensen to grapple with his feelings for Jared before, with Jared shut away in the Room of Shelves, it was nothing to the pain he felt watching Jared as he now welcomed his suitors’ attentions, seeking them out, offering himself up.

Jared began to attend again the dining in the Hearth Hall. He came to sup and to drink and to dance, but that was not all.

Each night, Jensen stood with his back against the wall, telling himself he was still guarding against trouble, but truly simply unable to resist watching from afar. 

He saw Jared take Eric by the hand and lead him out into the gardens, only to return long after with his color high and a glazed, satisfied look in his eyes. He witnessed as Jared left the dancing to grab a skin of wine and slip away arm-in-arm with Alaina into one of the Hall’s tiny wall alcoves, notoriously used for couples’ brief trysts, where Jensen himself had enjoyed many private encounters. Then it was Katherine, then Genevieve, Nicole and Sheppard. It seemed as if Jared now consorted freely with them all, finding time day and night to dally with each alone. 

None of this was at all unusual behavior for unmarried members of the Court, but it seemed extremely unusual for Jared. And if Jared’s sudden promiscuity made any of his suitors jealous of the others, none was more jealous than Jensen. 

The worst was the stormy midnight he was too restless to sleep, sick from wishing for Jared to sneak back into his rooms for advice… or more. As Jensen wandered the empty castle halls, deliberately avoiding the North Tower, he came across his Ward slinking out of the door to Pellegrino’s suite. 

Jensen halted mid-stride. Jared’s eyes widened—was it guiltily?—when he caught sight of Jensen, but he simply drew himself up and, without a word, started past. 

Jensen almost held out until Jared turned the corner out of sight, but his willpower failed him at the last. He spun around. “Jared?” 

Now it was Jared’s turn to freeze. But although he stopped, he did not turn. “Yes?”

Jensen had no idea what he’d meant to say, why he’d opened his mouth at all. He cast about, but all he could come up with was, “Are you well?”

They were in one of the outer-wall sections of the palace, and he could hear the water and wind whipping outside of one of the window slits as he stared at Jared’s back, waiting for a response. The flickering torchlight caressed Jared’s hair, bronze and gold.

“As well as can be expected,” Jared replied at last, “with less than a week left until Solstice.” He walked on then without waiting for Jensen to respond.

Jensen went back to his rooms and opened the window flap, letting in the lashing rain to strike across his face. He felt unreal, insubstantial. He needed to be iron, but instead he was spun sugar, melting away in the downpour.

*****

 

The next night at feasting, even before the first course was served, King Jeffrey pounded on the High Table and shouted for silence. Although he was still pale beneath his beard, the strength of his voice alone spoke to his recovery, and Jensen was gladdened. When the King had the room’s attention, he announced that, to celebrate the season, their hard-won victories overseas, and the upcoming betrothal of the heirs to the Padalecki lands, a tourney would be held on Solstice Day.

The Court exploded into a buzz of excitement and approval. A tournament was always a welcome diversion. And there were sufficient nobles who’d keenly followed the competition for Jared’s hand that the culmination of that drama was of great interest. The babble quieted rapidly again as the King held up his hands.

He turned to look down the table at Jared. “Will you tell us now whom it shall be, my young lord?” 

And if Jared was surprised by the announcement or the question, Jensen could not read it in his face, which was as void as ashes. “I beseech that I may wait to say on the day of the tourney itself, Your Majesty.”

“I will allow it,“ Jeffrey replied mildly, also appearing unsurprised. “Now this is a most joyous occasion,” the King continued, smiling down at Jared, who did not look particularly joyful, “and I would not wish it to be marred by any personal spites. Therefore I have chosen as my Champion for the jousting, Sir Jensen of Ackles, Jared’s Warden and my faithful defender.”

There was another roar of cheering at the choice, which _did_ surprise Jensen. He hadn’t realized so many knew him among the Court, much less that he had any particular adherents. 

Jensen was young still, and not an illustrious jouster like Jason of Momoa or Prince Idris. He would never have the necessary weight and strength. But he’d learned from years of training with Morgan’s other great knights to hold his own against most any mounted man, as he’d demonstrated in Lyon when he’d stood alone between a gang of the Empire’s soldiers and the unhorsed, wounded King, defending him ferociously until support could arrive. Jensen supposed it must be overly-embellished tales of that combat which inspired the unexpected cheers.

So the King’s choice of tournament Champion made sense to anyone. Anyone but Jensen, who would have preferred to stay as far away from this particular festivity as possible. Nevertheless, he rose, stepping over the bench, and made his way up to the dais to take the King’s glove as token. He made sure he appeared honored and excited. 

“I will win the day for you, my liege,” Jensen said, accepting the royal token with a deep bow. The soft kid leather, white as bone, was adorned with fur and clusters of small, smooth jewels. It weighed heavier in Jensen’s hand than it looked. 

“Not for me, but for your Ward,” the King said loudly for all to hear.

“Just so,” Jensen replied, shooting no more than a quick glance toward the air above Jared’s head. “I will joust and win in his honor and the honor of his chosen spouse.”

He said it with the force of a vow, a vow that felt thick in his throat, choking him like dust. _Yes,_ he thought, clutching the glove tightly and hardening his heart as best he could. _It shall be a wedding gift._

*****

 

The day of the tourney dawned clear and fine, the storms of the previous week long gone. Piercing yellow rays slanted down through infrequent white wisps of cloud, tattering them as swiftly as a sword blade run through silk. Jensen raised a hand to shield his eyes as he joined the procession riding out from the keep toward the jousting lists set up in an empty, level meadow beyond.

Shadow lifted his feet with frolicsome pleasure, kicking out once or twice for the sheer joy of it.

At this tournament—short notice as it was and thrown in celebration—there would be no melee, only the course of jousts. _Likely,_ Jensen mused, _because no one wants to encourage the nobles to assemble on the field in war parties, even in sport._

Their procession approached the edge of the meadow where a riot of color lined the entry to the lists: a double row of vivid tents, in orange, or maize, or blue and scarlet, some formed like small castles flying pennants from their multitude of peaks. Each displayed the owner’s arms at the entrance, even those, like Lehne or Richings, who were unlikely to enter a combatant in the joust. In the wake of the heralds’ trumpets, the parade broke up, with knights and squires and caparisoned horses heading to individual tents to prepare, and the bulk of the nobles and other spectators swarming to secure spots in the lodges. There, risers had been set up for viewing, shaded to protect against the bright sun. 

The King had loaned Jensen one of his own young squires, Osric, who trailed behind him, leading the halter of a spare courser in case Shadow became fatigued. Jensen himself as Champion had no substitute; he was expected to joust on until the lists were empty. But that didn’t concern him. Like Shadow, he could barely contain all the energy pent up inside him. 

Affixed to the stout gate, there was a row of shields. As each knight rode by, he or she struck a shield of choice to issue challenge. In this tourney, a few might try a passage of arms against friends, or even enemies, in a simple test of valor. But most were aiming higher. The shield with the king’s coat of arms—and thus Jensen’s—bore so many sword and lance wounds of challenge that the wood showed through the paint. Nearly a score of rivals had signaled they wished to joust against Jensen: three passes, three attempts for the tourney’s prize.

Normally, the jousting would matter very little to Jensen. He did not have the kind of pride that rested on invincibility. He’d been unseated in practice by Olsson and Worthy and the other expert jousters in the King’s Guard too often for his self-respect to be damaged by a fall. But in this case, he had more at stake. First of all, he’d never been a tourney’s Champion before, and, given his low station, this was probably his only chance for such an honor. Beyond that, there was the fact that he would be jousting in front of Jared, which was fraught in ways he deliberately shied away from contemplating. But—of greatest importance to him at the moment—the King had offered the winner of the jousting not coin or new-minted arms as was the typical prize, but rather the promise of a boon, the granting of some single dear request. Should someone unseat the Champion, the prize was theirs. But should Jensen survive all of his courses successfully, the prize, and a royal favor, would be his.

When he’d heard that a boon was being offered, he resolved to ask the King to be sent abroad. Immediately. As far from Morgan as possible. Some service or quest to undertake, it didn’t matter what. Only that he should not be near to witness Jared’s wedding. It was not an excessive request, he was sure it would be granted. All he must do is win the day.

Jensen’s glance wandered over toward the center of lodges, where he spotted Jared, seated in honor between the Queen and Alona. 

But before Jared could catch him looking, the trumpets sounded and Jensen turned his attention to the joust. Heralds chanted his name at one end of the field, his first opponent’s at the other. It was the young Cohen cavalier, Sir Matthew, who he’d face first. Jensen considered this an auspicious start: not too great a challenge, but no pushover either. 

He settled his tilting helm over his mail hood, then pushed down the visor with his fist. He heeled at Shadow to urge him forward. His shield, blazoned with Morgan’s black and silver coat of arms, he shifted from his shoulder to his forearm. 

Osric was waiting for him at the head of the course, and as Jensen approached, the boy timed his lift of the heavy lance aloft, swinging it in a rainbow arc so that it slapped down into Jensen’s waiting hand. Jensen gave Osric a silent nod of thanks as he scampered away, then couched the weapon tightly under his arm and watched Matthew do the same. The trumpets blew again. Jensen eased his rein and clapped spurs. Shadow hardly needed encouragement. He’d jousted with Jensen uncounted times, and the horse surged forward with a bound.

The black stallion was fleet as he was fierce. Jensen was two-thirds of the way down the field before Matthew’s horse had even hit its best stride. They met, and Jensen’s lance struck his opponent’s shield dead center, even as Matthew’s struck him. Both of them were pushed several inches back in their seats at the power of the impact, their horses, likewise, forced back on their haunches. Jensen felt the point of his lance slip, then catch a boss and hold. The shaft bowed as Matthew clung precariously to the saddle, but an extra shove from Jensen forced him to give in, tipping over his cantle and onto the ground. Jensen slatted Matthew’s lance off well to the side of his own shield and rode on past. He grinned fiercely beneath his visor, his blood high. 

The lodges applauded this first well-executed success. The heralds sang the result aloud.

The next opponent was another young knight. Jensen accepted a new lance from Osric and unseated her on the first pass as well. 

Then there was still another. It seemed few wanted to joust unless it was against the Champion for the tourney’s prize. 

This challenger was not so young this time, a seasoned captain Jensen recognized in service to Lady Cole. The first and second passes between them were a draw. Jensen absorbed the blows that rocked him in the saddle and numbed his shield arm, but was in no danger of being unseated. The third pass, however, was a disaster because Jensen’s lance was flawed. It shattered as soon as he made contact with the Cole knight’s shield, and thus the impact he took was undiluted by any countering blow.

Jensen grunted at the shock of pain as his left arm was slammed back into his chest, but long years of training held. He forced the arm up, tilting his shield, and dug his knee into Shadow’s side to make him swerve. With a scraping screech his opponent’s lance point slid upward. Gruelingly, Jensen leaned further out, thrust the shield up and out with all his might, and the lance fell away. At the same time, he threw down the butt end of his own shattered shaft and gripped desperately at his saddle’s pommel. 

Instinct, and Shadow’s even stride as he galloped away, were the only things that kept Jensen in the saddle. Breathing under the tight-closed tourney helm was a struggle, and Jensen found himself gulping for air through his mouth. He slowed the horse to a walk and let himself take extra time guiding him back to the head of the lists, trying to unobtrusively roll the lingering soreness out of his shield arm. Thank the Twins that had been the final pass of that challenge.

But then Jensen heard the heralds announce next Sir Timothy of Omundson, a jouster Jensen knew by reputation. He had seen many tourneys and won more than a few. If the previous pass had been a hardship, this would be a greater test by far. Jensen feared he might be finished before he’d barely begun.

Osric met him, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he cried as he swung the new lance into Jensen’s waiting hand, “I vow, if this one doesn’t hold I will skewer myself on the blunt end!”

Jensen managed a brief smile. “Not your fault,” he ground out, still slightly breathless. His mind was not on the squire but fixed on Omundson. Jensen looked down the field to see if he could spot signs of weakness in his opponent’s seat or bearing, and found none. 

Trumpets sounded, and Jensen jabbed Shadow’s flank hard, couching his lance tight as he moved. He blocked out everything but the bobbing target of Omundson’s shield. 

The sound at their collision was appalling, the force even worse. Jensen felt his saddletree protest as he slammed back against it, but his arm was holding, his lance holding. He clenched his teeth as he felt his body lift, and he threw himself forward against the pressure. Then sweet release as, _shrrrik_ , Omundson’s lance slatted off his shield. Not so sweet was the feel of his own lance losing purchase, Omundson easily thrusting it aside. Jensen heard the roar of the crowd in appreciation at their mutual prowess. One pass, survived. 

Suddenly, Jensen brought his stallion up short, turned and galloped back to seize a new lance, barely slowing as he swept past Osric. His goal was to be ready before Sir Timothy and get the jump on him as the next pass began. He timed it perfectly, and at the trumpets’ song Shadow was leaping over the start line at near a full gallop. This extra speed gave him an advantage, and the second shock, thankfully, was not so bad. While Jensen still had to cling to his seat, he had the pleasure of seeing Omundson twist desperately to get out from under his own spear. Two down.

Too tired to try the same trick twice, he walked Shadow back, giving them both a rest. 

As they made their way to position, he snuck a glance over to Jared’s seat in the stands, spied him leaning forward in his seat, fretful hands clasped before him. Jensen knew he should not covet Jared’s concern, but it was precious nonetheless. He wished there were someone to assure Jared there was no danger, but Jensen had seen enough broken bones and even guts spilled while jousting to know it would be false comfort. 

Jensen had let his mind wander, and it came at a steep price. For upon this third time, it was Omundson who started fast. Even Shadow’s fleetness couldn’t compensate for the speed the other mount had developed. Hastily, Jensen swung his legs back a little to brace himself, but they felt as weak as straw. He was gripping his lance too hard, the tip quivering and losing aim. The other knight roared toward him impossibly fast. _Whomp._ Jensen’s shield shuddered under the blow and he could feel himself tipping inexorably. Every muscle in his body strained to resist, to brace, to stay. But no. It would be a bad fall. 

Then Jensen heard the blessed crack of overstrained wood again, this time Omundson’s lance. Oh gods help him. One more frantic push—

It was only the cheers of the crowd that told Jensen he had unhorsed Omundson. He had not the strength to even turn to look. He sagged, hunched over his pommel in relief. Bright flashes and black spots obscured his vision. Sharp pains zagged out from the barely-healed slit in his side he’d gained in the forest attack. And a duller ache renewed in his ribs. But despite all this, his heart soared with pride at unseating such a foe.

He had a brief rest while two other knights clashed, and he sent a silent thanks to the tournament marshals for scheduling his first respite now. Osric held up a bowl of wine to quench his thirst, and Jensen removed his helm, hoping he didn’t look as pale as he felt. He drank, then sputtered. “Lad, this is unwatered! I’m not in quite such sore need. At least not _yet_. “ He laughed shakily. “And I certainly don’t think drunkenness is going to aid my abilities.” 

But before Osric could go fetch a less potent drink, Jensen heard the herald cry his name again and that of Buckmaster. Once again he recognized the challenger; this knight was no young or easy opponent either. Although nowhere near as strong as Sir Timothy, she was canny and experienced and would be eager to prove herself against a chosen Champion, prize or no.

But Jensen won that one, too, and the next. More courses with few, painfully short breaks in between. Shadow’s neck became soaked with sweat, the muscles in his flank twitched with fatigue. Jensen was no better, his shield arm deadened and his grip on each lance trembling so that he feared not just for his aim, but that he’d be unable to carry them at all. The mid-day heat was like a vicious, living thing, attacking from above, and black spots continued to dance across Jensen’s vision now and again. He knew he should probably change horses, but he was quite sure he could never remount if he tried to climb down now.

 _One more. One more._ It became a mantra as he turned and galloped, albeit less swiftly, time after time down the lists. Time after time, he returned, still ahorse.

It seemed he’d been jousting for whole days, whole years, when, at last, after the heralds called for more, no challenger stood to answer. A second call. The third and final.

But just before the decisive fanfare blew and Jensen was announced the winner, a figure appeared at the other end of the lists. At the sight, Jensen let out a breath that verged on a sob.

He recognized the horse before the man. Jared had entered astride Faith, the horse’s fair coat gleaming pure and bright as diamonds. The deep crimsons and golds of the Padalecki coat of arms shone unsullied on Jared’s shield, mocking the battered and flaked paint on Jensen’s own, his pristine surcoat a contrast to Jensen’s own sweat-soaked one.

Jensen turned his head to glance over to the royal seats, thinking it a mirage. He must be delusional, concussed or sunstruck. But no. There was a gaping hole next to Queen Samantha where Jared once sat. 

Swiveling back to the man opposing him down the course, he tried to read Jared’s face but it was hidden by the visor of his helm. Impenetrable. Unfathomable.

Jensen was tired. So tired. Too tired to divine Jared’s intention. Why he would appear here, now. 

But it didn’t matter, in the end. Down to the bottom of his very soul, Jensen was certain Jared was not here for glory or prizes. He was not here to betray Jensen or do him harm. So whatever Jared’s plan was, Jensen would support him, uphold him, defend him. 

He was honor-bound to do so. 

He would do so regardless.

Even as the trumpet sounded and the horses charged, Jensen threw his lance down. There was no point in carrying it. He would not strike. 

Faith and Shadow leapt toward one another. And as they raced, a small part of Jensen’s exhausted brain took note with giddy amusement and a heaping portion of concern of Jared’s near-complete lack of control of the lance. The point bounced and weaved wildly. Jensen would be lucky if Jared didn’t skewer him or rip another hole in his side on accident. 

It came to him in that instant that if Jared’s goal were to unseat him, Jensen himself would have to lend some aid. 

He pressed on stalwart Shadow’s side with his knee, easing him closer to the center divide. Carefully, he watched the motion of Jared’s lance tip, Faith’s stride, timed it so that as they came together, he rose up in his stirrups, angling his shield to make the target—himself—as large as possible. At the very last second, against all training and sense, he leaned into the collision, praying Jared knew enough to hold on tight to the weapon. 

Jared’s lance struck true upon the convex center of Jensen’s shield. The sound of impact was a crack like lightning, followed by the roll of thunder of a hundred voices from the stands crying in protest. Jensen could feel himself being pushed out of the saddle and allowed his legs to release at last their steadfast grip from around Shadow’s barrel. He toppled sideways and over, landing hard in the dust whisked up by the horses’ hoofs. 

Jensen had lost his tournament prize. 

He lay with the wind knocked out of him, feeling like an upturned turtle with ten tons of shell pinning him down. He turned his head to see Jared fling himself out of the saddle, throwing off his helm and running headlong toward Jensen as if _his_ armor weighed no more than a woolen cloak. He sank to his knees next to Jensen, calling his name frantically, running gauntleted hands over him, fumbling with his visor, flipping it up to stare into his face.

“Twins have mercy,” Jared gasped. “That was terrible. What was I thinking? Are you hurt aught? Your ribs? Your wound?”

“I’m fine, you ass,” Jensen groaned. “Or I would be if you hadn’t laid me in the dirt.” 

Slowly, the wry tone sunk in, and a grin spread over Jared’s face. But it was quickly overtaken by a grim look of determination. 

He stood abruptly, and walked toward the lodges where the agitated crowd was just starting to settle. He planted himself before the dais, gracefully lowering himself to his knees before the seats of the King and Queen. 

Jensen, much less gracefully, hefted himself to his feet and, doing his best not to stagger, took his position, standing behind Jared’s right shoulder. His legs trembled with fatigue, every muscle screaming in protest, but he locked himself in place, waiting with what seemed every single man, woman, and child in the kingdom to see the drama played out. 

Jared barely had to raise his voice, so quiet had the stands become in anticipation. 

“Sir Jensen is from Richardson, True Son of Ackles,” he called out, “and by the oath-sworn word of the Sisterhood’s own, he is also a true descendant of Padalecki, and thus eligible for marriage to make me Padalecki’s heir. Your Majesties, I ask you to confirm my choice, both by custom and by my success today on the field.”

Jensen leaned down to speak into Jared’s ear, his voice a dry croak. “Don’t be a fool. The Queen has forbidden it once already. I have nothing, no land or name.”

“I have enough of that for both of us,” Jared said brusquely. “What I need is you.” He craned his neck around to look up into Jensen’s anxious face. “And wait. There’s more.”

“Confirm!” a high voice called, plucking the taut silence like a lute string. Lady Ruth was a tiny woman, but as she rose to her feet, she drew every eye in the stands. “Confirm!” she repeated. “Connell stands with Padalecki!” 

Jensen gasped, his eyes darting to the royal couple to gauge their response, when from the other side, another voice sounded. “Confirm! Huffman says confirm!” 

Alaina was on her feet as well, and, near to her, Nicole, tugging at her father’s sleeve until he stood up, rushed and annoyed. Jensen could hardly believe his ears. “Lehne says confirm!”

A roar of approval from courtiers and commoners alike rolled over the field, a cacophony of cheers that gradually resolved themselves into a chant. “Confirm! Confirm! Confirm!” 

Even great nobles with no stake in the disposition of the Padalecki honors—Tom, Marsters, Benedict—Jensen saw they were joining the chorus.

He looked to Jared in astonishment, but Jared’s face was still tense, his jaw clenched. He was staring toward Pellegrino, his eyes locked with Lord Mark’s where he lounged languidly back against his seat, while it seemed everyone else in the pavilion had leapt to their feet in excitement. 

Everyone except the Queen and King. They also still sat, calmly, the King looking out toward him and Jared, the Queen at Pellegrino. But their very stillness betrayed to Jensen the knife-edge that Jared walked along. 

Jared clambered to his feet, and as he stepped forward, the voices of the crowd died down once more, so many hundreds eager to witness the next twist in this storybook tale Jared was composing. Jensen was as bemused and enthralled as all of them put together.

Jared reached a hand in Pellegrino’s direction. “Padalecki would be your friend, my lord,” he called out.

There was a pregnant hush, all the world holding its breath for Mark’s answer. 

“Confirm.” 

Beside him, Katherine and Genevieve embraced in relief. Around them, the crowd once again roared their approval.

King Jeffrey exchanged a long look with his wife, then stood and held up his hands for quiet. When he could be heard, he pronounced in a voice that carried over battlefields, “This is not what we would have chosen for you, Lord Jared. But as you have won over your peers and proven your valor on the field against my former Champion—” There was a disapproving glance at Jensen for clearly forfeiting the contest, and while Jensen felt the dart of his liege’s disapproval sting, it could not puncture the growing, astonished hope that was swelling within him, “—we cannot withhold our blessing for this alliance.” Then he smiled merrily at Jared. “Well played, my lad. Your father would be proud.”

Jared turned to place his hands on Jensen’s shoulders, and Jensen could feel tremors of relief shaking Jared’s body, even as a grin of triumph finally broke across his face.

“How?” Jensen demanded, leaning in to shout again in Jared’s ear to be heard over the thrice-renewed cheering. “How did you do it?”

Jared wrapped his arms around Jensen and yanked him close, their mail clanging together awkwardly. Jared was laughing, his eyes lit like stars. “No one really wanted to marry _me_. Lehne’s heir desires Eric of Connell, and despite the allure of my riches, her father could not turn Nicole’s course. Eric, being a lover of women, will gladly take her over me. Lady Alaina and Sheppard have each long been yearning for the other, although it just took some negotiating to help them see it was love, not hate, which kept them brangling day and night. Lady Ruth would rather ally with Alaina than me—my lands may be richer, but she covets Huffman’s vineyards. And Genevieve greatly desires union with her cousin, Katherine. Both only dangled themselves before me because of Lord Mark’s ambitions.” He sobered slightly. “I pledged to move with him against Heyerdahl, Jensen. It was the only chit I could offer him in exchange for his support for us.”

Jensen nodded, trying to process it all. Jared must’ve seen his astonishment, because he laughed again. “It was simple. Each family’s concern was over the shift in the balance of power. Once they were assured I would not accept one of their rivals, they agreed I could have you.” He brought one mailed glove up to Jensen’s face, touching his cheek with the tips of his fingers. “And now I have you.”

*****

 

After the tournament, Jensen had barely lasted through the triumphal procession back to the castle, battling a haze of fatigue and emotional turmoil. Horses jostled all around him and Jared, people darting about on foot. Strange voices called out support and praise, instruments played, a bard already began recounting the grand tale of the tourney in rhyming couplets, and someone threw a spray of flowers to dapple Faith’s mane. To Jensen, it seemed a morass of color and heat and sound. He managed to keep himself upright until they reached the courtyard, where he blindly tumbled off of Shadow and stumbled back to his room, stripping off his armor and collapsing into his small cot all unwashed and untended.

When he awoke, he might have thought the whole incident a dream. Except for the healers and servants clustered around him, sponging the dirt and sweat from his body, applying hot and cold compresses to his bruises, slathering him in healing liniments, rebandaging the cut on his side. The entire room smelled green and acrid.

Jared was standing just inside the doorway, overseeing the whole affair, his shoulder propped against the wall. 

“Wha’?” Jensen croaked, running a feeble hand over his face to clear the cobwebs. 

“They’ve been at it for a while now,” Jared said, his expression halfway between relief and concern. “We couldn’t rouse you.”

Jensen groaned and rolled his head on the pillow. Every muscle in his body was screaming in protest at its mistreatment, and the lotion the attendants smeared on them tingled and burned. “You couldn’t let me sleep longer?”

“Apparently not, if you wanted to be able to move again soon. King Jeffrey’s own physician was here, and she assures me this treatment is the best thing for bruising that severe.”

Jared’s eyes traveled up and down Jensen’s body where he was being ministered to, but he quickly jerked his gaze away when Jensen caught him at it. Jensen realized he was mostly naked aside from one loose drape of cloth for modesty, and he suddenly wished he could clear the room. He dearly needed some time alone with Jared.

And just what was stopping him? He gracelessly maneuvered himself up to a sitting position. “Thank you, everyone,” he said, brushing away gentle protests and attempts to press him to lie back down. “I’m grateful for your efforts, but I think we’re done here for the nonce.” 

Once they realized Jensen was not to be dissuaded, the healers swiftly packed up their jars and cloths and began to file from the room. Jared’s brow was furrowed and he fidgeted, looking unsure as to whether he should leave as well. Finally, after the last servant left, he put his hand on the latch as if planning to follow them out and pull the door shut behind him.

“Is there anything I can get you… or do for you?” Jared pointed vaguely out into the world beyond.

“You can come here,” Jensen replied, shifting the cloth in his lap for better coverage. Clearly they would need some conversation before anything… else. “If you are only able to tell me what’s wrong when you’re sitting on my floor, there’s a convenient spot right here.” He pointed at the small rug at his feet. 

Jared snorted and ran a hand through his hair. But he didn’t move out of the doorway.

“What is it?” Jensen asked more gently, but his mind started to scramble. Had something gone amiss while he slept? Had the King reconsidered his approval of their union? Maybe Jensen had dreamed the whole thing after all.

“I—“ Jared stuttered. “—you—you made me agree to stay away, and I was so focused on navigating my way through the maze of negotiations with my cousins and what might happen at the tourney and my ridiculous attempt at jousting and—and I never actually confirmed that you wanted this. I fear perhaps you’ll now feel obliged or—or compelled to follow through. With this union.” 

The man who stood before hundreds just hours before and demanded that half the kingdom’s nobility bend to his will was gone. Back again was the uncertain boy Jensen had sat with by the campfire. 

Jensen’s heart felt too big for his chest. “Come here,” he said again, patting the spot on the mattress next to him. And when Jared shuffled over to sit down, Jensen took one long-fingered hand in his own, searching for words enough.

“I never would have thought it possible this could come to pass,” he said at last. “But not because I didn’t wish it. Indeed, there’s nothing on earth or heaven I could want more. You and I. Together. But while I dreamed of such love and dismissed it as hopeless, you fought for it and won. You _won_.” Jared gathered breath as if to interrupt, but Jensen barreled on. “I’m not obliged, Jared. I’m honored. Because what I said before is true. It will always be true. I love you.”

He did stop then, and waited to see what Jared would say. 

“You—you’re so—“ Jared burbled. Then he simply gave up and grabbed Jensen by the bare shoulders, hauling him close and kissing him ardently.

“Ow,” Jensen yelped, smiling even as he flinched from the twinge in his side and perhaps the new bruise Jared just laid on his lip. “Shhhh,” he insisted as Jared started to pull away, apologizing in distress. “Shhh. Here. Easy.” 

Jensen cupped both hands along Jared’s jaw, swathing his fingers in silky strands of hair, and slowly guided Jared back in. There Jensen brushed his lips feather-light over Jared’s before running his tongue gently along the bottom ridge, teasing, tickling. For a moment, Jared held himself stiff and careful under Jensen’s hands, but then Jensen felt him uncoil, sighing into Jensen’s mouth as he opened for him, soft and wet, letting Jensen twine their tongues languidly together.

Jensen was just calculating how to ease Jared down onto the mattress, whether to undress him now or later, how much certain exertions would aggravate his poor ribs, when he heard the obvious clearing of a throat from the still-open door. Jared jerked away from him as if scalded, scooting halfway across the cot with scarlet cheeks. Jensen bit back a whine of frustration and turned toward the doorway with a scowl.

“Pardon me, Sir Jensen. My lord Padalecki,” Lady Divine said, nodding formally, but Jensen detected the twinkle in her eye. “Jensen, the Queen has summoned you to a private conference once you are, um, up and around.” He could swear her lips twitched.

“To what purpose?” He prayed the cloth in his lap was bunched and tangled enough to hide anything that might have arisen. 

“She did not mention. Congratulations for your success? Plans for the wedding? Something else entirely?” 

“Jared too?”

“No, only your presence was requested,” she replied. 

Jensen glanced over at Jared, sitting there all rosy and shy and kiss-muddled and _his_ , and he almost said no, he would not come. But then the combination of habit and duty got the better of him. “Please tell Her Majesty,” he sighed, “that I will be there at once.”

*****

 

“Are you doing this to punish Jared? Or both of us?” Jensen fumed. Never before would he have spoken to the Queen in such a tone. Jared must have been rubbing off on him.

Jensen gave a silent huff at his mind’s turn of phrase. That was the crux of the problem right there, wasn’t it? 

“No,” Queen Samantha replied placidly, from her perch on the throne in her receiving room, but Jensen could detect the traces of a smirk trying to peek out from the corner of her mouth. What was it that everyone found so funny? “I’m just a mother, looking out for others of my ilk. And your mothers should be present at your wedding. I insist. Therefore, it is up to you to go fetch them.”

“My liege,” Jensen shifted tactics, sweetening his tone to a wheedle. “Jared and I have been betrothed for but a handful of hours, and I have been unconscious for most of it. Cannot we have a few days to—“ 

“Ah, but Jared himself asked that the wedding be held just a week hence,” she interjected. 

“A week?” Jensen echoed.

“Yes, he seems in quite the hurry to make your bond official.” She was smiling openly now. “That barely leaves you enough time to get to Ackles and back. Once you’re wed, Sir Jensen, you’ll have more than just ‘a few days’ to do whatever it is you happen to have in mind.” 

Jensen rolled his eyes at her veiled ribaldry. “And you intend for me to ride out immediately, still fresh sore from the jousting lists?”

“I’ve seen you ride with worse, for less,” she tutted. Not that she’d ever been shoved off her horse by a spear. “Besides,” she went on, raising an eyebrow, “if I _were_ in mind to ‘punish’ Jared, as you say, for disobedience of my direct instructions, for backing Jeffrey and I into a corner with such a wild public stunt, for hazarding the peace among rivaling factions, for allowing Pellegrino of all people to hold the trump card in his gamble, well. Perhaps you would not think such a small sport too unjust of me.” She smirked again, planting her elbow on the armrest and propping her chin in her hand. “He’s as eager for you as you are for him. I believe I shall let you both stew in it… for a few days.”

*****

 

Thus it was that Jensen found himself on horseback once again, with barely time for one more heated kiss from Jared before he mounted and was off. He left Shadow behind in the royal stables to recuperate— _at least one of us should get some rest_ —and borrowed a mount from among the spares of the King’s Guard. Jensen turned its head to the south, toward Richardson. And as curious as he was to see his childhood home again, it hurt to leave Jared’s side just as they’d been assured of each other, and, gods knew, it hurt to ride with his ribs bound once more and copious bruises already shading a violent purple under his leathers.

Fortunately, the trip was as smooth and easy as he could wish. He took only two young men-at-arms, Ridge and Dylan, with him as escort, which enabled him to travel swiftly. Or at least as swiftly as his pains allowed. And the Queen must have sent word ahead even of their quick pace, because three days later when he arrived in Ackles, it seemed the whole village turned out to meet them, his parents included. Courtesy required him to stay the night, and he had to admit to enjoying reacquainting himself with Donna and Alin, hearing their stories of him as a boy, relating some of his own adventures in the King’s service, speaking of the Padalecki heritage that Jared had unearthed through his research. 

But always in his mind was the compass pull of the north, back to Morgan and his promised husband. 

So if, when he hastened them the next morn to quickly pack and mount and be on their way, his mothers exchanged the same indulgent, amused look he’d seen on the Queen’s face, it was worth it.

*****

 

Unfortunately, the ride back from Ackles was as full of mishaps as the trip down had been smooth. His mothers’ stout ponies were no match in speed for destriers, and Jensen chafed at the deliberate pace. Periodic rain showers slowed them further. And on the fifth day, when they were still far from Morgan and Alin’s pony threw a shoe, Jensen was sore tempted to take his parents up on their urging for him to go on ahead without them, for fear of missing the wedding ceremony altogether.

But his pride and genuine concern would not let him leave them behind. Nor, to be truthful, did he want to face the Queen to explain how he’d come to abandon them. He took Alin up behind him in the saddle, left Dylan to bring the lamed pony along as he could, and the rest of them forged on. 

It wasn’t until late morning on his wedding day that he brought his small party safely into the castle walls.

A solitary figure stood waiting for them out in front of the stables. 

The grooms swarmed out in a wave around him, and Jensen could barely wait for them to help his mother down from the saddle before throwing himself off of Shadow and into Jared’s arms. 

“Welcome back,” Jared murmured into Jensen’s hair, his hands coming up to press Jensen close to his chest for a too-brief moment before stepping back. He looked Jensen up and down. “Cut it a little close, did you not?”

“Were you worried I wouldn’t come back?”

Jared blushed, but before he could answer, Jensen’s parents approached and there were introductions to make.

Both of his mothers teased and cooed over Jared, not once appearing to be awed at his station, nor did he act at all superior or impatient with their familiarities. _Not that he would_ , Jensen thought, unsure why he was surprised. Jared was so unlike the other courtiers Jensen had lived with all these years. He was kind and perceptive and charming and…

“Jensen!” Donna said, pulling him out of his reverie. “Why are you standing here when there’s but a short while before the ceremony? You must bathe and change! Be off, my dear. Jared will find us an escort to our quarters.”

So Jensen quickly found himself standing in the middle of his tiny room, alone, bemused, wondering what he was supposed to do next. Who he should summon. What in the Twins’ name he was supposed to _wear_.

Before panic could set in, a parade of servants trooped through the door: attendants with warm water and soaps, a barber, a physic to check the progress of his healing, others whose purpose was unclear to Jensen but who bustled about the room, stripping him of his soiled clothes and helping him into a seat. He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh of relief as he was tended to, the whiskers shaved from his cheeks, his head tilted back and his hair massaged with fragrant soap. 

He must have fallen into a light doze, because he jolted awake at a gentle shake from one of the servants. “It is time to dress, Sir Jensen.”

Clothes were magically produced for him, gorgeous new-made garments that tailors must have slaved over from dusk to dawn from the moment the tourney was over. A young maidservant knelt to slip his feet into ruby-red chausses, the fabric soft as a spaniel’s ear, lighter and finer than anything Jensen had ever worn before. He stood and almost balked at the silk shirt that came next, a deeper russet with a trail of gold embroidery at the neckline. This was too magnificent for underclothing. But his attendants slipped it on, and the tunic and surcoat too, each piece richer and more elaborate than the one before. 

He fingered the stiff gold thread and small garnets set along the surcoat’s neckline, marveling at the worth of these alone. It seemed unbelievable that he should be arrayed in the colors of Padalecki, that he would wear them in his own right as Jared’s spouse. 

“This is a work of art,” he said, then asked his dressers, “Do you know to whom I should offer thanks?”

At that moment, Jared slipped in through the doorway. “The Queen had these—” he started merrily, but then halted mid-sentence, staring at Jensen with astonishment. Jensen returned the favor, for Jared looked stunning in his own wedding finery, the mirror image of Jensen’s, with a chain set with topaz the size of bird’s eggs draped over his broad shoulders. A small circlet in gold threaded through his dark hair and over his brow.

“Never has there lived a man more handsome than you,” Jared breathed softly, looking away as if he were indeed dazzled at the sight of Jensen. “You are more beauteous than the sunset.”

Jensen stepped forward and rested a hand on Jared’s shoulder, letting his thumb tenderly caress the side of Jared’s neck. He found it impossible to resist the chance to touch Jared, even for a moment. “Fair words, my lord,” he teased, “But you have no need to woo me. I’m yours already, or will be in but an hour’s time.”

“Will you?” Jared replied, not matching Jensen’s light tone, but taking him by both arms and searching his face. “Am I not dreaming?”

“If you do, we dream together,” Jensen said, smiling at Jared’s earnestness.

Jared gulped in a deep breath as if to steady himself, then returned the smile. “Together it shall be then.”

*****

 

Their wedding was neither extravagant nor particularly widely-attended, as far as Court ceremonies went, and Jensen was perfectly fine with that. There’d been a certain baseline crowd in the church, simply because the King and Queen had been present, and any function they attended drew the Court’s regular cadre of hangers-on and gawkers. And many of Jared’s retainers had made the long trip to witness the marriage and investiture of their new liege. Otherwise, there were few strangers in the crowd at the church. Given that this was the wedding of the heir to one of the largest estates in the kingdom, it was downright intimate.

Now, though, all of the pageantry and formalities were complete. Jensen’s lineage had been confirmed, Jared’s installment as Lord Padalecki proclaimed by the King. Robert the Wise had insisted on travelling to Morgan to officiate, and under his watchful eye, Jensen had said his vows, Jared had replied. They had exchanged the kiss of peace that sealed their contract and their twofold-bond, and if merely that chaste press of lip-to-lip had set Jensen’s senses alight, he hid it well during the long evening of public celebration, biding his time. There were enough moments during the feasting that he saw Jared shift awkwardly, throwing Jensen an avid look from under lidded eyes, that his own eagerness was easily curbed. 

They would be alone together soon enough, and forever after that.

Now he stood outside the door to Jared’s chambers, having finally been divested of his wedding regalia and escorted through the castle halls by his companions in the King’s Guard and other nobles—Sampson, Olsson, Whitfield, McKinney, and even the Princess herself—with the traditional lewd jesting and toasts straight from the wineskin. They’d pounded on the door and Alona had called out, “Your bridegroom has arrived, Lord Padalecki. Are you ready to receive him, or shall we carry him away again? I fear that a bit more drink and he will be no good for you this evening!”

Jensen shoved several of them aside good-naturedly and shooed the rest away, cracking open the door himself and slipping inside, as if afraid that the crowd would follow. He turned to look around the room with a grin still on his face. But his joviality mellowed into a warm wave of fondness and desire as he caught sight of Jared, in front of the hearth, staring down into the small fire that crackled there. 

Like Jensen, he was clothed in only a nightrobe of finest silk, and it clung to the muscles in Jared’s shoulders and back, flowing down over his slim hips and the high curve of his ass. Jensen’s fingers twitched with the desperate need to touch.

“At last we are alone,” he said, attempting to tease a smile onto Jared’s too-serious countenance. 

“Indeed,” Jared replied. “Thank the Two. At times I feared the day would never end.” The words were the right ones, but Jensen could hear the tension in Jared’s voice, the stiffness in his movements as he reached up to the mantle to take a sip from a cup set near to hand. 

Jensen crossed the room unhurriedly. He had a sense of what might be troubling his husband—his _husband_ , by the gods, he would never get tired of that word—and was fairly confident he had a cure. Finally, finally, they had time and privacy. Jared’s wedding night nerves did not stand a chance against him.

When he reached the hearth, he fitted himself up against Jared’s back, wrapping his arms loosely about his waist and hooking his chin up over Jared’s shoulder so that they watched the fire together. It was a casual embrace, meant only for comfort. Only for stillness, quiet. This was a familiar path that Jensen trod, and he felt the tightness in Jared’s frame begin to ease a bit in the simple, undemanding closeness. 

“Tell me,” he murmured in Jared’s ear. The tie to Jared’s robe was right there under his hands, almost unbearably tempting, but Jensen made himself wait. Just a bit longer.

“Why is it that you always have the task of dragging the truth out of me?” Jared said ruefully. “Always must be the one who sorts out the maelstrom in my mind?” 

Jensen shrugged, knowing Jared would feel it where they pressed together. “Perhaps you’ve just got too much commotion in there for one mind to hold.” He smiled into Jared’s shoulder. “I have it easy, I’m just a simple man.”

Jared laughed silently and leaned back deeper into Jensen’s embrace.

“I’ve wanted this since I first saw you,” Jared said after a moment. “Wanted it the minute I knelt before you in the dirt on that road outside of Palo Alto. But now that we’re here, I’m so nervous. I can’t—it doesn’t make sense.”

Jensen could still feel Jared’s slight trembling, but he could also see the jut of his cock, pushing out against the thin fabric of his robe . Nervous, yes. Unwilling, certainly not.

“Listen.” He pulled away and turned Jared so they faced each other. He caught Jared’s gaze and held it, needing to read the truth in Jared’s eyes. “You know what happens between husbands in bed, yes?” 

Jared could hardly have missed the indiscreet and lurid acts any number of courtiers committed nightly, publicly, all over the palace. But Jensen was determined to be frank with his young charge—no—his young spouse.

“Of course,” Jared nodded, then gave Jensen a mischievous smile. “And other, less felicitous, places too.” 

Jensen caught the reference to their tryst in the forest after Heyerdahl’s ambush and replied with a quick grin of his own. He was glad that Jared wasn’t shadowed by what happened there, either the attack or what came after.

“More than that. There are many things we might do together tonight,” Jensen continued more seriously. “It’s important to me that, here, from the start, we’re honest about what we want. What _you_ want.” 

He took Jared’s hand and placed it on his chest. Again he forced himself to wait, to have patience, even if his growing lust had him trembling almost as noticeably as Jared.

“I know what I want,” Jared said, his voice suddenly low and fervent. “I want you to touch me. To teach me all the ways that we can pleasure each other. I—“ he stuttered a little but did not look away. “—I want you inside me, as a man takes another man. I’ve imagined how it would feel, but now I want to know.”

Before Jensen could react to this declaration, Jared eased open Jensen’s robe slightly, just enough to bare his chest and let his fingers feather over the few lingering bruises, most healed to a greenish-mauve. Jensen sucked in a sharp breath and drew Jared to him.

“We can do that,” he said, and waited no longer to seek Jared’s lips.

He kissed Jared as if drinking water after days in a desert. Deep, greedy kisses, full of promise of what was to come. He felt Jared’s hands start to wander over his body, and he let his own have free rein as well. He skated them across the firm planes of Jared’s chest, down his flanks, feeling Jared’s breath hitch as his fingers brushed low over his stomach. It was a match to dry kindling, the way touching Jared made him burn, and he raced ahead, his fingers working open the knot of Jared’s gown, sliding it slowly open to glory in the feel of hot, smooth skin and to trace the lines between his abs. Jensen slid his hand even further down to hug the curve of Jared’s bare hip, thumb circling around and around the jut of bone there, and Jared squirmed under his touch, shivering and breathless.

Jared was so eager, so responsive. His every gasp, every quiver under Jensen’s hands was a marvel. Jensen could feel the hot, hard length of Jared’s cock pressing against his belly, with little jolts every time he sucked hard on Jared’s tongue, a spot of wetness from the tip soaking through Jensen’s robe. 

But they still had a long way to go, if Jensen was to give Jared tonight what he asked for. Perhaps he should take the edge off Jared’s urgency with an apéritif before they indulged in the main course.

He pulled back, both of them gasping for air. Then he murmured against Jared’s lips, “How close are you?”

“What?” Jared blinked, his eyes hot and glazed, his fingers flexing unconsciously, rhythmically at Jensen’s shoulders. 

Jensen deliberately pitched his voice in a heavy drawl. “If I reached down right now and stroked your cock, how quickly would you come?”

“Unghh.” Jared moaned and slumped sideways, his shoulder hitting the stonework of the mantleplace. That was enough answer for Jensen. 

“Turn and lean back,” he said, flipping the tails of Jared’s robe away and dropping to his knees before him. 

He stopped for just a moment, drinking in the sight of Jared’s erection, thick and rose-red, rising from the soft curls covering his sac. He reached up to run teasing fingertips up the underside, tracing out the beat of Jared’s pulse in the center vein, feeling the staccato throb of his heartbeat there. Jensen took a deep breath in, Jared’s musky scent the most potent aphrodisiac.

“Please,” he heard Jared grit out above him. “Please do something, Jensen. Do anything.” And he could not wait any longer. He leaned in and suckled at the velvety crown briefly before swallowing Jared all the way down to the back of his throat. 

Jared let out a shout and his knees nearly buckled. Jensen kept his grip tight on his hip in support, but let the other come up to fondle Jared’s balls, feeling them tighten and draw up against his body as Jensen bobbed up and down. Jared was as primed and desperate as Jensen suspected, because all it took was a curl of Jensen’s tongue on the upstroke and a press of his knuckle into the supple, secret skin behind Jared’s balls, and Jared spent himself into Jensen’s mouth. Hot, bitter spunk swept over Jensen’s taste buds, and he swallowed it down, gulping at the flood as Jared pumped his hips helplessly, shuddering and twisting. A spate of little _ah, ah, ahs_ punched out of Jared’s lungs, each one causing Jensen’s own throbbing cock to twitch in response.

Jensen pressed the heel of his hand to his stiff length to ease its ache momentarily, then he stood, sliding right up Jared’s body to support his limp weight. 

He grinned a little at the shattered look on Jared’s face, and nuzzled up under Jared’s ear. “Let’s go over to the bed now, alright?”

Jared nodded dazedly and stumbled toward the curtained bed, almost as ornate as the one Jensen had slept in at Saint Anthony, bedecked in velvet draperies and plump with soft bedding and pillows. Jensen stopped Jared at the bedside just long enough to slip the robe over his shoulders, letting it fall into a glossy puddle around his feet. But Jared suddenly came back to life, scrabbling likewise at the tie on Jensen’s robe. He muttered a curse, tearing it off. He pushed at Jensen’s bare shoulders so that he sat with a _thump_ , the bed under him and Jared coming down on top of him and oh, thank gods. 

He felt as if he'd been waiting for this moment for his entire life. Jared's tongue in his mouth, Jared’s hands cradling his face, his cock burning hot against Jensen’s belly as he sat on his haunches across Jensen's lap, knees planted outside Jensen’s hips. 

Jensen swallowed the noises Jared made into his mouth, the urgent whines and stifled moans, changing the angle of their kiss to lick deeper inside. He spread his legs wide to force Jared to press even nearer, to open him even further. In response, Jared ground down, swiveling his hips, rubbing his cock against Jensen’s, kissing back hard and sweet and desperate, and Jensen was so turned on by that he thought he might explode. He palmed a hand across the damp skin at the small of Jared’s back and dared to slip two fingers down between Jared’s spread cheeks to brush over the furled skin of his hole. Jared made a shocked, eager noise deep in his throat and his whole body practically _rippled_ as he bucked at Jensen’s touch. 

“Want you, Jared. Want you now,” Jensen said hoarsely, his senses overwhelmed by hips and hands and tongue and skin, by Jared moving so innocent and sinuous against him. Jensen had never felt anything like this, so inflamed, every nerve in his body standing on end.

“Have me,” Jared answered, and he tumbled to the side, pulling at Jensen’s shoulders as he fell, landing flat on his back with Jensen on top of him. Jensen reached down to grip the backs of Jared’s thighs and heaved, boosting him up into the center of the bed and falling forward to hover over him on hands and knees. Jared was impossibly gorgeous sprawled out beneath him, his hair fanned over the bedclothes. Jensen couldn’t resist, he leaned down into Jared’s chest to lip at one pert nipple, rolling it gently between his teeth. Jared gasped and writhed and bucked again at this new sensation. 

“Ah, how does that feel?” Jensen murmured into Jared’s skin. Then he stroked at the nub even harder with the tip and flat of his tongue, even as he brought a free hand up to play with the other, thrumming over it with his calloused thumb.

“I can’t—good. So good. So good,” Jared chanted, arching his back to get closer.

“Mmm,” Jensen hummed in encouragement as he continued to tease and play with both nipples. But then the sound turned into a strangled moan as he felt Jared slip a hand between them and curl it around Jensen’s cock. Jensen squeezed his eyes shut and remembered Jared jacking them off together in the forest, the echo of that moment singing through him as Jared started stroking him, slow and smooth. And, _gods_ , if he kept that up, Jensen was going to burst way too soon. 

Jensen rolled his hips down so that Jared’s hand was trapped between them. “Wait,” he gasped. “I would have you fully, under me. I—I would give you all you ask.” 

In other circumstances, with any other partner, Jensen would have simply suggested that they fuck. But in this bed, with Jared, it seemed too meager and vulgar a word. Who knew love would turn him into such a romantic? 

Jared was hauling in deep breaths, too, and said simply, earnestly, “Yes.” 

Jensen sucked in a sharp breath at the expression on Jared's face. It was all burning want, all directed at him. It eclipsed the blues and golds in his eyes and turned them dark. He licked his lips, and Jensen had to look away, or he’d come right then and there.

He rolled over toward the small bench placed by the bedside and sent up a prayer of thanks to whichever servants prepared the room. Because along with sundries like the jugs of wine and water and the ewer for washing in the morning, they’d provided a tall, elegantly crafted bottle of scented oil, sweet and slick. Jensen had no patience for the cork, simply ripped it out with his teeth and spit it over the side of the bed. Then he tipped the jar and poured a small puddle into the hollow of his hand.

He turned back to Jared, saw him open his legs wider in response, and nearly choked. Jensen knew he should have Jared turn over, that this initiation would be less difficult on his belly. But he was too selfish. He wanted to see Jared’s expressive face, watch every raw reaction, revel in the sight of him coming undone with Jensen inside him. His first time, their first time.

Leaning forward, Jensen said, “I need to get you ready to receive me. This oil helps to ease the way.” 

With his clean hand, he snatched up a pillow and coaxed Jared into tucking it under his hips, tilting them up. Then he scooted close, closer, reached down to cup his palm under Jared’s knee and raised his leg carefully up to drape over his shoulder. He coated his fingers in the slippery pool and reached down, smearing Jared’s cock with the oil on his way past, down behind his balls, down to the small, tender opening laid bare before him.

A quick, startled yelp slipped out of Jared at the first graze of Jensen’s fingers to his hole and his legs jerked, like they were trying to clamp shut, despite the position that held him open. 

Jensen automatically pulled back, but Jared stopped him, slurring, “Sorry. Sorry, I—” Deliberately trying to relax his muscles, Jared cocked his other leg out farther to the side, offering Jensen even greater access. “Like this?” he asked, his eyes wide, his breath shallow.

“Just like that,” Jensen whispered reverently. 

Jared was so trusting, so ingenuous. Jensen was torn between wanting to protect him and wanting to debauch him completely. “As long as you want it,” he added. “Do you want this?”

He let the tip of one finger circle and loop, caressing around Jared’s rim, then, at Jared’s hissed, “Yes,” slowly he pressed past the resistance. Jared’s body sucked it in like it was as hungry as his whimpery noises made it sound. Jensen turned his head to lick at the thin, salty skin of Jared’s inner thigh, right there, scraping a little with his teeth to elicit a delicious, unrestrained shiver. It made Jared clench up around his fingertip and Jensen groaned at the feel, pushing it in deeper to feel the silky flesh envelop it.

Jensen waited for a minute, laying soft kisses along Jared’s leg, then began dragging his finger in and out, striking up an agonizingly slow rhythm that had Jared jerking hips-first off the bed in an artless pursuit of sensation. 

The tight muscle relented enough that Jensen could tease around the edge with a second finger and carefully slid that one in, too. Dear gods, it was so hot inside, so lush and snug and Jensen had to force himself not to think about how good it was going to feel around his cock. 

Another jab in, quicker this time, and Jared let out a short, high cry, digging his head back into the pillow and baring his neck, his leg tightening painfully on Jensen’s shoulder.

"By all that’s holy, Jensen," he gasped, astonishment clear in his voice, "What was that?"

With a grin, Jensen replied, “Oh, that means we’re getting to the good part.” 

He searched out the spot again, teased the little bit of flesh with the pads of his fingers and Jared reared up, clawing at the bed. A quiet whine built in his throat, growing louder and louder as Jensen widened his fingers slowly, stretching, spreading, then curling them to stroke and rub again at the spot that had Jared shaking like a leaf.

By the time Jensen added more oil and a third finger, Jared had tipped over from willing to frantic, Jensen could see it in his face, the scrunch of his forehead and sharp dig of teeth into his bottom lip, the arch and twist of his spine. The feeling was mutual, because the way he was bucking against Jensen as he shoved into him threatened to drive Jensen mad with impatience.

“Are you ready for more?” Jensen asked, and it came out like begging, as he thrust all three fingers in, all the way to the knuckle. Jared keened assent, and reached for him, scrabbling at Jensen’s arm to draw him nearer. He left nail scratches behind like lines of fire as Jared dragged them chest to chest, Jensen in the cradle of his hips, his cock bumping up against Jared’s wet, open hole. 

“Now, beloved," Jared demanded, shaky and thready and urgent. He strained upward to get to Jensen’s mouth. The kiss was brutal and inelegant, less of a kiss and more like Jared was trying to devour Jensen. Then he scrubbed his cheek blindly against Jensen’s, grating out words he's not even sure Jared realized he was saying. "Give me your cock. I want it in me, want you inside, you know I do. Want to feel it—feel you—so much. Don’t make me wait."

Jared might as well have carved the words into Jensen’s skin with a knife, they cut him so deep. He didn’t hesitate any longer—couldn’t, wouldn’t—just lined himself up to Jared’s entrance and carefully _pressed_.

They moaned in unison as Jensen’s cock breeched Jared’s body. Jensen’s arms shook where he held himself over Jared, Jared’s shook as he reached down instinctively to grab his own legs, tugging them tighter to his chest, curling up and spreading himself as wide as he could. No crisis on the battlefield had ever tested Jensen’s mettle more cruelly than that moment, the urge to thrust, to _come_ , so overwhelming, from just the feel of his cockhead gripped by Jared’s tight channel. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, not daring to breathe, and strained furiously for control. 

A moment later, he was back from the precipice, focused again completely on Jared, searching his face for signs of pain or distress. _Go slow. Slow. Slow_ , Jensen recited to himself. 

At first, when Jensen moved again, Jared’s mouth flattened into a thin, strained line. Jensen raised a hand to brush back Jared’s hair, skating it lightly down over his chest and ribs and belly and back up. Stroking, soothing, distracting Jared from the pain of entry. And the deeper Jensen sank, the more readily Jared’s body welcomed him in, loosening, unfurling for him like it was made to take this. The more ground Jensen took—each breath, each inch—the wider Jared’s soft lips parted, the lines around his eyes smoothing out into something like ecstasy and awe.

At last Jensen was seated fully, and it was as if there was a great hot ember burning somewhere in the middle of his gut, heat swiftly licking its way outward until he was sure he would be scorched and gone. He tried to hold still, to let them both adjust to the vise-like pressure, but his cock demanded friction and his hips moved without his volition, risking a single short, deep jab that was more perfect than anything he’d ever felt before. 

“Ah, yes," Jared cried out, tossing his head, the heavy fall of his hair brushing Jensen’s wrist like a caress. “Y—yes. Have mercy, Jensen. More.”

So Jensen eased out of him almost entirely, and pushed back in, a slow surge that made Jared’s already short and choppy breath hitch in his chest. Jensen drank in every gasp as he rolled his hips, seeking, changing the angle each time until Jared's incoherent mewl of pleasure told him he’d rediscovered what he was looking for.

"I will give you more," Jensen growled in triumph, and propped himself on one hand to reach for Jared’s cock, standing gratifyingly hard and wet against his belly. Jensen slicked his fingers with the remaining traces of oil and the pre-come that blurted from the head and curled them around its thick girth. He jacked Jared, a stroke for every thrust of his hips into that singular spot inside him. As his cock slid slickly in and out of Jared's ass, clenched in exquisite tight heat, Jensen groaned in near agony. The need to let go and fuck with abandon welled up again in him like blood from a wound. But he fended it off, just barely, still determined to see to Jared’s satisfaction above all. 

Then Jared opened his eyes and locked them with Jensen’s. His hand came up to join Jensen’s, twining with his fingers as they pumped his cock. Faster now, and they moved together in tandem as if they’d been lovers for years. Jared’s legs were wrapped around Jensen’s sides, flexing and contracting against his lower back, so strong Jensen felt the pressure in his still-mending ribs. But the pain was like seasoning in a spicy dish, an ache to mix with the luscious thrill each time Jensen buried himself deep, each time Jared whimpered with pleasure.

The fingers of Jared’s free hand dug ruthlessly into the back of Jensen’s neck to yank him in closer. Jensen strained forward on the crest of a thrust to touch his mouth to Jared’s. He nipped his lower lip sharply, soothed it with his tongue, and pulled away again.

From a throat gone tight, Jensen scraped words out. "Come for me," he urged. "My beautiful, perfect husband. You’re mine now, Jared. So come—"

With a deep, guttural moan, Jared buckled under him, his muscles locking up. Jensen felt it, exulting, his heart full to overflowing, as ripples of bliss shook Jared’s body. But the feel of his release, thick and wet over their linked hands, the primal smell of it, the look of rapture on Jared’s flushed face, all combined to push Jensen over the edge. He gave in to his own need. His hips snapped forward in spite of himself, slamming into Jared's ass— _too hard, too hard_ —bright friction and Jared still answering him with tiny thrusts upward. Sensation swelled inside him, up from his toes to his fingertips, spiraling back into a tight, pulsing ball at the base of his spine. Then with one last plunge of his hips he froze, overcome, and spilled himself into Jared's pliant body.

He folded helplessly down onto Jared’s chest. Arms came up to embrace him, pressing him closer. Long fingers ran lazily through Jensen's damp hair as they both panted for air. 

"Merciful gods," Jensen said at last, his whole body limp and thrumming, echoing the feel of Jared's rabbiting heart under his cheek. “Are you alright? Tell me how that felt. Tell me you’re contented.”

Jared huffed a laugh, causing Jensen’s head to bounce where it lay. “Are you truly fishing for compliments right now? Because you must know that was—it was the—the most magnificent thing I’ve ever felt.” He sighed grandly, “I am indeed content, my lord.”

“My lord?” Jensen teased. “What happened to ‘beloved’? I think I like beloved.”

He felt Jared’s lip brush the top of his head. After a moment, there came a whisper. “I believe I’ve discovered that they mean the same thing.” 

There was nothing more to say after that, and they rested in silence until Jensen found the energy to move. Getting his knees under him, slowly, gingerly he pulled out of Jared. He slid the fouled pillow out from underneath them and tossed it onto the floor, then groped for a cloth from the bedside stand and dipped it one-handed into the ewer. He used it to clean them both off, Jared first, gently soothing cool water over his skin and sore spots.

He’d barely finished before Jared hauled him back in again, snuggling him close. Jensen wasn’t accustomed to such embraces after sex, but he found himself savoring it, the soft, indolent, purposeless kisses, Jared’s skin warm against his, the beat of their hearts in time. 

His bruises ached. He was exhausted from lack of sleep and a week’s worth of travel and physical exertion. He had just wed a man he’d known less than a season, the fledgling head of one of the most exalted houses of the aristocracy. There was likely still war on the horizon, one Jensen was destined to be at the heart of. And yet… he had never been more content than he was at that moment. 

They fell asleep with their lips barely separated, Jensen savoring the thought that, the next morning, he would not have far to seek Jared when he woke.

*****

 

The road to Saint Anthony was just the same as it had been a few short weeks before. Except for where before the trees shading the hoof-worn, rutted earth had been decorated with the blooms of late springtime, now they were in full foliage, green and lush.

They’d headed out from Morgan but three days after the wedding. It was as hasty as the ceremony itself, yet both of them were eager for time and to be out of the hornet’s nest of the Court. 

Now in the evenings, on this journey, instead of sparring, Jensen took Jared by the hand and led him into their tent, the same they’d shared in their earlier travels. Jensen was amused to discover that Jared was shy of lovemaking with the company of soldiers within earshot. Which of course spurred Jensen to tease him, stripping him down and laying him out on their bedrolls, tormenting him with such slow, fervid licking and biting and sucking that Jared had to bite down on his hand to muffle his cries for mercy, blushing furiously each morning as he emerged from the tent to the knowing grins of their escort.

At last they found themselves on the hill approaching Saint Anthony’s town, the castle gate towering solid and reassuring in the distance. Jensen tapped a heel to his horse’s side and jogged up close enough that Shadow could turn his face to nuzzle at Faith’s shoulder. Considering that this was very near to what Jensen had been daydreaming of doing to Jared when they reached the keep, he quickly pulled his mount more firmly to the center of the road in deference to Jared’s sweet sense of decorum. 

“What say you, my lord? I’m quite dusty from our travels. Shall we have a bath tonight?” 

Jared grinned back. “I do believe we shall, _my_ lord. I do believe so. There’s a new name to be carved into the stone.”

“Two names,” Jensen responded, and—decorum be damned—he nudged Shadow over again and reached out to a place hand on the back of Jared’s neck, tugging him swiftly into a heated kiss. The citizens who turned out on the side of the road to welcome home the Lords Padalecki cheered and catcalled good-naturedly at the embrace.

Jared laughed against Jensen’s lips. “By the Two.”

*****

 

On the road behind, a solitary figure galloped on a tired mount. Concealed underneath a common messenger’s cloak to hide her face, it was Princess Alona, riding hard to seek them out.

 

 

~end

[ ](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/542180.html)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 spn_j2_bigbang. Eternal thanks go to my betas, the omniscient cherie_morte (she knows everything, Jon Snow!) and the wonderfully wise and generous electricalgwen who actually combed through this in between continents. Both of them went above and beyond the call of duty, and my gratitude to them could fuel a small city for several years. Thanks as well to the brilliant tebtosca for help with the title when I was floundering, and to my gang of email loopers (#TeamProcrastination!) without whom I’d never get a Big Bang written. Please go praise the work of my sweet artist, uh_tiramisu. I’m thrilled she’s been so enthusiastic about the story and eager to make it beautiful. Finally, huge appreciation to wendy for being a mod second-to-none and making this challenge one of the best in all fandom.


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